Little Things
by EmmileneRosalina
Summary: Character and pairing-centric drabbles about love, family, and coping. Hawksbill - Romano pulls some strings and gets himself a free vacation with Spain, but it's riddled with annoyances.
1. Porr'dge

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Liechtenstein owns space on the world map.**

Summary: Finland refuses to wake up. Sweden doesn't want porridge for breakfast.

Pairing: Sweden x Finland

Rating: K+

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_Porr'dge_

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Finland does this to him every morning.

"T'no... g't up."

The night previous he'll say, "Don't worry, Su-san! I'll make breakfast!" and then...

"F'nland, wake up."

He rolls over, yawning sleepily.

"Salmiakki..."

Sweden tries again.

"T'no. Come'n, 's time t'wake up."

Tino rolls onto his back and blinks drowsily, mumbling something.

"Too early... five more minutes?"

Berwald wants to sigh, but he doesn't. Tino is not getting up.

"What do y'want for breakf'st?"

Finland rubs his eyes with the sleeve of his pajamas and says something, but Sweden doesn't understand.

"Su-san..."

Berwald's eyebrow arches, but before he can ask again, Tino is asleep again.

"Guess 'll just have t'go with porr'dge again..."

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_xxxEnd_

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**I'm not very good at this whole 'update' thing, and I'm having major issues on my Spain x Romano because a brilliant reviewer pointed out that I have no talent, sooo... yeah.**

**And I think I'm becoming partial to the grunt speak... it's so much fun. Though I failed in under-the-topness.**

**Also, my Word processor hates this chapter. The grunt-speak gets along with my Microsoft like France gets along with England.**


	2. Terms of Endearment

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Switzerland owns masculine sleepwear.**

Summary: Korea unwittingly challenges China to a mimicry battle aru, da ze!

Pairing: Korea x China

Rating: T (to be prudishly safe)

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_Terms of Endearment

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"_Hyung!_ I found your Shinatty, aru~!" Yong Soo teased, waving the plush around. Yao snatched it easily, despite the height difference.

"I said to stop making fun of me, aru," China retorted, cradling the cat-shaped doll in his arms.

"I'll stop making fun of you when you stop talking so strangely, aru!" Korea stuck his tongue out at the older nation, making the Chinese man blanch.

"You stop first, aru! You're always going on about kimchi and dramas and you're always- _that, aru!_" Yao pulled back from Yong Soo. "You're doing it again, aru!"

"Doing what again, aru?" Yong Soo smiled cheekily, pulling his hands back from whence he had been openly groping Yao.

"Just _grabbing_ me out of the _blue _like that, aru- _cut it out, Im Yong Soo, I'm being serious, aru_." China's 'serious face' didn't ward off Korea's hands in the slightest, and the younger Asian nation merely continued to grin, choosing not to make a comment about how that sentence had rhymed.

"Aw, come on, aru." Yong Soo suddenly draped his arms over Yao's shoulders, the unexpected weight pulling them both to the floor. Pushing the other down a bit, he smirked. "You're so boring, aru."

"Stop making fun of me, aru," China repeated, momentarily oblivious to the position in favor of his dignity.

"No way, aru!" Korea giggled; this was getting to be interesting.

"Fine then, I'll just make fun of you too, aru!" China declared.

"And how do you plan to do that, aru?" Yong Soo asked, confident in his suaveness.

"Tonight I think I'll have kimchi, da ze! Then I think I'll molest aniki against his will, da ze! Molestation originated in Korea aru, da ze! Oh no, I forgot to record my favorite drama, da ze!" China squealed in an annoying voice that was apparently supposed to sound like Korea.

Yong Soo laughed. "That was pretty dead-on, _hyung_! But I don't molest you against your will, you love it!"

China turned his head away, annoyed. "I can't believe you, aru."

Korea took it as a compliment, puffing out his chest. "Yup, I'm pretty unbelievable. That's why you love me, _hyung_~!"

China sighed in defeat, knowing that it was pointless. "I guess so, aru."

Yong Soo quickly gave Yao a quick peck on the forehead before he could say no, and then got up.

"I'm making dinner tonight!" Yong Soo announced with an arm pump, bouncing to the kitchen with hanbok sleeves trailing behind him.

"Okay, what are we having, aru?" Yao picked himself up, brushing off Shinatty.

"Kimchi, of course!" China rolled his eyes.

_Of course._

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_xxxEnd

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**Well, aru, it's really hard to stop saying aru, aru. Are you confused yet, aru?**

**Haha, proofreading this was a major beyotch. Though, thankfully, 'aru' is already in my Word dictionary. Really though, China is compatible with too many people, and this suddenly just kinda burrowed into my head. Yao, you're precious, really.**

**And these drabbles are really random, sporadic, whatever. They can pick up at any time of the day. You kind of understand the situation that I started this off with, right?**


	3. Lacrymose

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Prussia has citizens today.**

Summary: Austria was the most beautiful when he was playing the piano.

Pairing: Prussia x Austria

Rating: T

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_Lacrymose

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He existed as the manifestation of his country. Thorough, peaceful and polite, just as he was raised.

Roderich was simply himself, a materialization of the pride of Austria.

He attended meetings and put up with incompetence; and he even had the decency to propose a non-violent alternative to Napoleon's regime while the other nations had hovered eagerly; warily circling France in the image of starving vultures and waiting for a chance to strike.

Roderich did what he was supposed to and was in every way an activist; taking on plans and executing them with precision, which was fine with him. He was a taskmaster and he was good at it.

But this, _this_ is what he lived for.

_Music_.

The sleek black curves of the pianoforte and the alluring uniformity of its keys, the seductive euphony that rose and fell with the rich, melodious tones of his mood; coaxing him from bed each morning and whispering illustrious promises with each hovering note.

Some asked him what he found in the piano, what it meant to "play with passion".

It was a question he would respond to immediately with the softening of his countenance and an air of thoughtfulness surrounding him, enveloping and ensnaring those who dared listen.

He could merely smile fondly and describe the satisfaction that called him back every day; absorbed in his own world while others looked on, drawn in by the shine in his eyes dictating an emotion otherwise reserved for a child or a loved one.

The glossy ebony and ivory beckoned his loyal return without fail, playing a new piece with each phase of the moon; be it Strauss, Beethoven or Mozart. The crisp, neat lines of the bright white music sheets propped up enticingly against the sweeping, atramentous contours of the clavichord swept all rational thought from his mind on initial recognition and instilled in him only his most base instinct as an Austrian.

_Play_.

With his music, Roderich could escape the recurrently harsh reality of his everyday life and his struggle to handle ineptitude from those around him, abdicating from the role of the tightly-strung aristocrat in favor of relaxation and a sense of control and peace. When he played, his world became limited to himself and his piano and he subconsciously phased out anything that could break his concentration.

Austria was most beautiful when he was playing the piano, and Prussia hated it. Hated how he could walk into the room and be swept away by this inverted aristocrat, how each keystroke made his skin hum in appreciation of the finer things in life.

Things that _he_ couldn't have.

Austria was most beautiful when he was playing the piano.

He had never looked that beautiful for Prussia.

_February 24, 1947_

Prussia had an hour, seven minutes and forty-two seconds until he was officially dissolved.

No longer would he command an army or own a house of his own, and he had claimed a couch in Roderich's spacious living room as his own in a final, frantic attempt to preserve his memory.

When Gilbert opened his eyes, Roderich was seated at the piano, but was silent; looking out of the slate gray window rather than at his guest or instrument.

Prussia swallowed a lump of self-pity, but he wanted to enjoy his last seconds on Earth.

"Pay attention to me, Specs! I'm an awesome guest, so entertain me already," he whined without much effort, feeling as though a small victory had been won when Mariazell straightened and curled again in irritation.

Roderich let out a small sigh, not replying to Gilbert, but turning to face the piano. He picked up a steadily aging booklet, filigreed with a layer of cobwebs, and blew the dust off of the pale blue binding; muttering that his muse was temporarily unresponsive and would Prussia please give him a moment.

"Anything is fine, Specs," Gilbert stated, watching the Austrian leaf through the sheet music monotonously, so unlike the vibrant mood he usually gave off when making a selection. He seemed to find something, as he paused a moment, and then blinked rapidly, clearing his throat.

"I'm going to sing as well," he stated, purposefully avoiding eye contact with the Prussian, "So please, refrain from laughing." Gilbert waved him off with disinterest.

"I am going to perform Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's 'Lacrimosa'."

Austria placed the crinkled yellow sheet music against the piano and took a deep breath before beginning.

_Lacrymosa dies illa_

Mournful on that day

Roderich's fingers moved expertly along the keys, dancing with noticeable effort and force. Gilbert listened intently as his friend sang, seemingly off-key at first; but growing stronger as he progressed.

_Qua resurget ex favilla_

When he shall rise from the ashes

The tempo rose almost unnoticeably with the next line, and Prussia sat up, noticing that Austria's posture had changed. The aristocrat's voice trembled slightly and he took a deep breath. Prussia rose and walked over.

_Judicandus homo reus_

The guilty must be judged

Roderich's voice trailed off completely into a strained whisper at the third line of lyrics, and the music sputtered and died at his fingertips; the last notes hanging in the air like dewdrops in a spider's web. The Austrian simply gazed unseeingly at his hands for a moment before letting them drop to his sides, useless.

Gilbert came from behind, wrapping his arms around Roderich tightly, and the Austrian felt slightly better at the contact, but also felt worse simply because the gesture made him feel better.

"You do not have to hug me, Prussia," he said after a moment, though the physical contact helped keep him anchored to reality. Prussia wasn't gone yet. He was still here, living and breathing.

Gilbert grinned slightly into Roderich's shoulder, pulling Austria closer to him.

"Why would I hug you, Specs? I'm just invading your territory. I've gotta start somewhere if Prussia is going to regain its former glory someday."

Austria leaned back slightly, looking at Prussia with a thinly-veiled vulnerability that was usually heavily concealed behind haughtiness. "You will still be here tomorrow. I am sure of it."

His eyes were red; he'd been rubbing them at the very least.

Gilbert placed a small, soundless kiss to the side of Roderich's neck and allowed a devious smile to decorate his face, mustering up courage for the both of them. "Damn straight. You'll never be able to get rid of me, fancy-pants."

Roderich's mouth lifted up with the hint of a smile in both corners, but it was gone before Gilbert could prove that it had been there.

"Of course not."

He lightly pushed Prussia away and placed his fingers back on the keys.

"Now, if you would kindly discontinue invasion of my territory, I would like to return to my piano."

Gilbert sat down again obediently and watched Roderich as he began again, deciding that Austria was the most beautiful when playing the piano.

However, he was infinitely more beautiful when playing for Prussia.

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_xxxEnd

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_

**-blows a kiss-**

**Here's to Prussia x Austria. Steve Lopez came to speak at our school today about **_**The Soloist**_**, and he obviously talked a lot about music.**

**You can probably tell that I've never played the piano by how romantic I find it. X3**

**Inspired and heavily influenced by Hazel-Beka's lovely work in this fandom.**

**I know that they seem out of character, but I mean... who knows what's going to happen to Prussia? (We do, obviously, but...) They'd obviously be a little more freaked out. Kinda like, "Yeah, you may die at midnight tonight. Otherwise, you're good."**

**Ah, long comment is long. I'm sorry for the long drabble this time.**


	4. First Crushes

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am recognized as an owner of Hetalia like Sealand is recognized as a country.**

Summary: Sealand and Latvia huddle under a blanket together and discuss former crushes.

Pairing: Sealand x Latvia

Rating: K+

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_First Crushes_

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"W-W-What about y-you, S-Sealand? Wh-Who do you admire?" Latvia asked, for once shivering from the cold instead of fear. Sealand pulled the blanket tighter around them, scooching closer to the fireplace.

"Ah, let's see... I think I admire England because he's so small compared to some of the other European countries but is still treated equally, even though he is a jerk... um... I admire you because you're nice to me..." Peter missed the small blush that crossed Raivis' face, "...and Lithuania, because he gave me such good advice on being recognized as a country."

They were silent for a moment or so, listening to the crackling fire and the high winds rattling the windowpanes, covering them with snow.

Sealand turned in the blanket to face Latvia, though not causing a draft to permeate the quilt. "Can you keep a secret, Raivis?" The Baltic country blinked wide eyes, and then nodded.

"I actually used to have a crush on Toris." Something clouded Latvia's eyes a little bit. Jealousy, perhaps? "He was really nice to me when I asked him for help, but I don't see him like that anymore."

"R-Really? I used t-to have a crush on Ge-Ge-Germany," Raivis replied with what would have sounded almost like nonchalance coming from anybody else, but paired with a stutter, came out sounding one hundred percent like Latvia.

Sealand raised an impressive eyebrow, huddling up closer and unconsciously making Latvia's face light up pink again. "Why Germany, though?"

Raivis closed his eyes. "H-He wasn't R-R-R... Ivan..." Peter didn't have a response to that, so after a while, he continued, "B-But I don't l-l-like him like that anymore..."

Sealand was quiet for a second before beginning again. "You know, I don't like Lithuania like that either, anymore," he continued in a seemingly off-handed way, not realizing that he had repeated himself. "Not for a while."

Latvia moved slightly towards Sealand, the extreme cold of the Swedish winter making him shake constantly. Peter wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled the Latvian boy closer without a thought.

"Um... I kind of like you, now, Raivis."

Latvia felt a fluttering somewhere in his chest.

"I-I like you too, S-S-Sealand..."

A grandfather clock in the foyer tolled nine as they basked in the light of the fire.

"Are we going out now?" Sealand asked suddenly after a while, scaring the living daylights out of Latvia.

"W-W-W-What?"

Peter looked at him with a totally serious look on his face, as though this was a life or death matter.

"Should we kiss or something? Mom and Dad like each other, and they do it all the time."

There was something about Peter's face getting closer and closer that just made Raivis' brain go on the fritz, and he fainted.

"Latvia? Raivis! Hey! How am I supposed to get you home by ten if you're dead?

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_xxxEnd_

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**HAHAHA this is why I don't write shota. My idea was basically this- Latvia, Sealand, crushes, puppy love, serious face, fainting.**

**ANYWAY, obviously, I didn't update whatever it's called... the one with the Spanish title, I know you know what it is, since that's all you watch me for... anyway, I'm going to be practicing my writing and thought-to-paper process for a while because I was dissatisfied with the last chapter.**

**And I did research for this. German-Latvian relationships are pretty much awesome.**

**But scared little Latvia crushing on big, scary Germany? XD**


	5. Text as a Verb

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I have as much of the Hetalia franchise as Poland does masculine pride.**

Summary: Lithuania struggles through the day while Poland sends him status updates.

Pairing: Lithuania x Poland

Rating: T

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_Text as a Verb

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_

The day started with the well-meaning but extremely annoying beeping of the alarm on Lithuania's cell phone.

"_Wake up, Liet! Rise and shine! Like, remember to make me pancakes~!"_

Well, ever since Poland had decided to record his alarm for him, it had been annoying.

Toris sat up gradually, shutting off the phone and ignoring the rustling next to him as he got up and got dressed.

"Like... oh my God, Liet. It's like, what, seven in the morning?" Feliks complained, rubbing an eye with his wrist. "How can you even stand it?"

"You get used to it," Toris remarked, laughing softly and buttoning up his shirt. As soon as he finished he opened the door to leave, but heard Feliks bolt up in bed.

"You mean you're already dressed? I, like, totally missed it! Undress again!"

Lithuania merely gave him an irritated look.

"Poland, I have to leave," he started, pulling a tie off of the dresser and looping it around his neck.

"But it's not _fair_!" Poland exclaimed, crossing his arms in a sure beginning of a pout.

"But I'll be late if I don't go right now," Toris tried to explain, unsuccessfully.

"You have to promise me you'll let me _totally_ stare at you later, Liet," Feliks replied seriously.

"Okay, okay," Lithuania replied offhandedly, realizing that he wouldn't make it to America's house on time if he didn't get going. He strode over to the bed, kissed Poland on the forehead and shoved his phone into his pocket before running out the door.

Securely in the car with England, who had picked him up on his mad dash to the house, Lithuania pulled his phone out of his pocket with a tired sigh, noticing that he had one new message. He flipped it open and read it.

_U 4got 2 leave me brekkie, liet. srsly not cool. –Poland, 8:14am_

Lithuania rolled his eyes and texted back, safe in England's (hopefully) capable hands.

_Make something yourself, Poland. I believe in you. –Lithuania, 8:32am_

He put in the sarcasm merely because he knew that Poland wouldn't recognize it. Hopefully, Feliks would realize that cereal _was_ breakfast and that Lithuania didn't always have to give him sustenance.

Pondering a bit, Toris tapped out another quick message.

_Cereal is breakfast food too, Poland. –Lithuania, 8:34am_

"What are you doing, Lithuania?" Oh, right. England.

"Nothing much," Lithuania responded with a trace of a smile. "Just reminding Poland that it is possible to have breakfast without having me around to make it for him."

England snorted.

"Sounds like that bloody git, America. You still clean his house, right?" Well, obviously. Alfred was a great guy, sure; but Toris didn't travel this distance just to make house calls. "Useless lad, that one. Completely air-headed."

Toris politely pretended to listen, but turned his head discreetly to read the text message that buzzed to life on his phone.

_But lieeeeeeeet... –Poland, 8:42am_

Lithuania smiled as the car pulled up to America's house. He could _hear_ the whine in his head. Oh, dear.

Toris finished making Alfred's bed with a sigh. Really, couldn't he do this much at the very least?

His phone buzzed again in his pocket. Lithuania sighed and flipped it open.

_Omg liet –Poland, 9:12am_

Toris quirked an eyebrow, but waited a couple of seconds until the phone vibrated again.

_My closet lite ttly went out! I cant c n e thinggg –Poland, 9:12am_

The brunette shoved the cell back into his pocket to deal with later, moving on to the living room, which was conveniently strewn with chip bags and beer bottles. Oh yeah, American football season. How could he forget?

The phone started buzzing again; Lithuania snapped it open quickly, certain that if his patience was that of a human's, his eye would have been twitching.

_I cant evn tell 1 shade of pink frm anthr! –Poland, 9:14am_

Extremely annoyed, Lithuania texted back.

_Just put in a new light bulb then! They're in the basement. –Lithuania, 9:15am_

He set about cleaning up the room with two garbage bags, one for recyclables, the other for everything else. It took about an hour for Toris to completely clean the room, and he decided to open his phone afterwards; the likes of which had been ringing for a little over a half hour.

_3 missed calls_

_1 new voice message_

Two missed calls from Poland, one from Russia (which he wouldn't have answered anyway), and a voice message from Poland. He unhappily sighed again, putting the phone to his ear to listen.

"Liet! I so totally _can not_ believe how completely insensitive you are! I mean, this is a total fashion _crisis_! Luckily for you I found a flashlight in your bedside drawer next to those _totally_ cute pictures of me I gave you last Christmas that you said you were gonna, like, throw away. Seriously, if I hadn't found that flashlight, you so totally _would not_ be getting any for a week! Come home soon, Liet. M'kay, love you, _bye_~!"

After taking a brief moment to wonder why the light in _Poland's closet_ burning out was _his fault_, Lithuania dialed the blonde's number quickly to clear up some suspicions.

"Hello~! This is fabulous speaking! JK, Liet, I know it's you. Did you miss me?"

Lithuania took a deep breath, wondering how to phrase this to make Poland understand once and for all.

"I am not a sexual deviant!"

"You don't think I'm sexy?" Poland sounded like he was about to cry.

"N-No! That's not what I mea-" Lithuania began, eyes wide.

"You hate me! You think I'm totally unsexy and ugly! You're so mean, Liet!" Feliks continued, and Toris choked.

"No! I love you, Poland! It's just, I'm really busy and you're confusing me and... I'm sorry, okay?" Feliks sniffled in response.

"...you don't think I'm unsexy?"

"No, Poland. You're definitely sexy." Lithuania heard a wolfwhistle behind him and could see America grinning out of the corner of his eye. With good reason, he began to blush.

"Like, sexier than the boys down in Vilnius?" Feliks asked, unaware of Toris' unwanted voyeur.

"Can I call you later?" Toris asked, frantically hoping that Alfred hadn't heard the prior half of the conversation lest he poke about it and follow him around while he cleaned and act like an ass.

"You don't even have enough time for me anymore! You so think I'm ugly!" Poland whined. Lithuania breathed deeply, deciding to answer in a language Poland would understand just to make him _shut up_.

"Like, totally no way, Feliks. Seriously. You are totes way hotter than all the hottest hotties in Vilnius _combined_." He could _feel _America laughing behind him.

"Like, ohmygosh! I'm so happy you think so! M'kay, finish up work and hurry home! I love you~!" Poland gushed, completely recovered from his previous mental breakdown.

"IloveyoutooPolandbye." Lithuania flipped the phone closed as quickly as possible.

Awkward silence reigned supreme in the room for a moment before America spoke up.

"You know, texting is a lot more private."

Lithuania was glad that he was patient, because he'd never wanted to throttle somebody so much as at that moment.

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_xxxEnd

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**Like, omg Feliks is SUPER fun to write.**

**Anyway, I took the PSATs yesterday and they TOOK AWAY MY CELL PHONE. –twitch-**

**But I was like, "Hm, you know who else needs to constantly be on the phone? POLAND."**

**It didn't come out the way I wanted it to. oTZ**


	6. Behind Closed Doors

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. My ownership of Hetalia is as strong as the 'seme' gene in Austria.**

Summary: Austria analyzes Prussia's soft side.

Pairing: Prussia x Austria

Rating: M (for safety's sake)

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_Behind Closed Doors

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_

Contrary to his brusque mannerisms, Austria found that Prussia was a surprisingly considerate lover.

Of course, this only ever applied in the bedroom. Door closed, locked, double bolted and with blinds drawn. After all, it couldn't be known to the public that _Gilbert_ had a _soft side_; oh no.

He still poked and prodded and provoked Roderich in the public line of vision, but in private he was a totally different person. He still acted essentially the same, but the amount of thought he put into his actions was a drastic change from his usual demeanor.

"What's up, specs?" Gilbert murmurs, ghosting his lips along the column of Roderich's neck, shaking him from his thoughts and making the pianist shiver pleasantly. "Something the matter?" The Austrian responds in the negative. Prussia snorts, pulling free the already loose cravat from Austria's neck; deliberately running the fine silk against the other's cheek as he moves in for a pre-meditated kiss.

It was miniscule things like this, Austria decided, that made him stay with Prussia. After all, there is nothing to be politically gained from a relationship with Gilbert because he has no territory to rule and no soldiers to command. His behavior is absurd and he is always drinking or playing with birds, neither of which make him seem affected in the _slightest_.

Of course, that bit of Roderich's hypothesis is purely sarcastic.

On a daily basis, Prussia seems unable to get with the program, like a salmon swimming upstream or the one college-going freshman that still dresses up on Halloween. He always seems especially careless with Austria; trashing his living room, eating him out of house and home, the works.

But moments like these, when the only sounds made were their soft breathing and the rustling of fabric, made Roderich stop himself and withstand Gilbert's mannerisms for another day.

Another kiss. Just one more kiss, he promises himself.

Then he'll stop.

But then Prussia's hand gravitates to the arc of his spine and tilts him upwards just so, gentle but firm; leading him with a strong hand into another butterfly light kiss backed by so much emotion that Austria has to part his lips just to keep from choking.

And before he knows it, he and Prussia are divested and indulging in the most sinful kind of symphony, though the touch feels more like undeserved cosseting.

All thoughts of leaving Prussia disband as the two reach their crescendos simultaneously, Austria with a sharp intake of breath and Prussia crooning his name.

_Roderich._

_Roderich._

_Roderich._

In this way, he picks himself up in the morning and allows himself to be taken again and again, swept away by the current of passion that once seemed like a dream.

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_xxxEnd

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_

**I don't know what the hell this is. If you do, please tell me, 'cause I'd love to know.**

**Anyway, I was thinking earlier that these two seem to be put together a lot, but I didn't think that Austria would be able to put up with Prussia unless he had a hidden side.**

**...I blame the brain mush on my upcoming History project, English paper and Latin test.**


	7. Waltz With Me

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own Hetalia as well as I can dance.**

Summary: Prussia and Austria, the Hofburg Palace. Care to dance?

Pairing: Prussia x Austria

Rating: T

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_Waltz With Me

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The Hofburg Palace was lit up with dazzling lights; candles and silver trinkets twinkling in the ballroom as though imitating the starry sky. It was a quarter after ten, and the men and women laughing and cajoling about the room smiled a great deal brighter than a great many bright things could ever aspire to shine.

Floor-length ball gowns swept across the floor as finely-dressed ladies danced about, drawing the eager eyes of their male counterparts. The orchestra played out a fanciful piece that kept the dancers on their toes, regardless of the otherwise monotonous mantras recited in their heads.

One-two-step, two-two-step, one-two-step.

The violinists watched their conductor carefully as they played; they hadn't done very well in their last practice, although they could have held their hangovers accountable.

The brunette kept stern eyes trained on the strings section as they coaxed the notes from their instruments; careful to make sure that nothing went wrong. He made a motion to the reeds to increase their tempo, and a motion to the brass to likewise slow down.

Roderich wanted this to be perfect, Gilbert knew. He'd heard him discussing it with West, and though he wouldn't normally care, eavesdropping made everything much more interesting to listen to.

These musicians were not talents to be scoffed at, he gathered; but attempting to play in such a respectable place with so many breathtaking women around would surely take its toll on even the best performers.

The dancers slowed as the piece reached its finish, and the females twirled into the arms of their partners before being taken down for a dip as the music stilled.

Standing up straight, the attendees began a show of applause, to which Roderich bowed, a slight tinge of color to his cheeks. He was very proud of his students, Gilbert could tell.

As the next orchestra took up its position, Roderich stepped down from the stand, wishing good fortune on the next conductor to face the nervousness of playing for the palace.

Gilbert watched as Roderich made his way over to the prime minister and his wife, asking polite things that the Prussian could care less about. Are you enjoying yourselves? Is the strudel not exquisite?

The platinum-blonde approached the brunette from behind, clapping a hand on Roderich's shoulder. "Good to see you, Edelstein." He could see the Austrian flinch and mentally congratulated himself on channeling enough awesomeness into a clap on the shoulder that it would make somebody jolt. "Care to dance?"

The other man looked appalled at the very notion. Him? Dance? With Prussia? After that one time?

A vivid memory of childhood overtook him, one in which he had still been under the impression that he was female. He shuddered.

Never again.

"I most certainly would not like to entertain the notion of dancing with you, Gilbert." Austria's boss had other ideas, though.

"Oh, come on, Roderich. Give the guy a break and loosen up! We're all just here to have some fun." Roderich looked betrayed, and Gilbert cheered internally again.

"But sir, would it not be best if I were to entertain the guests of importance?"

_Importance_? Ouch. That hurt.

"Don't be silly, young man." Prussia could see the effort Austria put into keeping tongue in cheek at the remark. After all, he was centuries older than his boss. "Go have some fun."

Gilbert's grin became a smirk as Roderich found himself helpless to the forces that be, letting out a defeated sigh and holding out a hand towards him.

Prussia blinked for a moment, perplexed. Austria sighed and took Prussia's hand into his own before leading him to the floor. "Dance," he instructed simply, instantly assuming the submissive role with unnatural ease.

Honestly, Prussia didn't know how to take that. He should be pissed that Austria had done this before, but he wasn't.

One of Austria's hands held onto his forearm, and the other was held tightly within Prussia's, arm stretched outward. Gilbert just stared for a moment. Austria sighed again as the new orchestra started up.

"It's a waltz, Gilbert. Here..." Roderich guided Gilbert's hand to his waist and secured it, then gripped his arm once more. Again, Prussia simply stared, even as other dancers began to move.

"You know, it is rather inconvenient for me to lead in this position," Austria commented blandly, and Prussia began to dance.

It began with a rotating box step and, miraculously, nobody was injured. They moved gracefully together, managing not to crash pathetically into the other people. Prussia found it oddly adorable that Austria continually had to mutter "one, two, three, four" under his breath as the music played; though whether it was for Roderich's benefit or his own, he wasn't sure.

The music ended much too quickly, in Gilbert's opinion; though Roderich looked as though he could use a break. He had been conducting and practicing for a good hour before this, so he wasn't exactly at the peak of energy. Wordlessly, Prussia took him by the sleeve and led him to the balcony for a breather.

Austria bent over slightly, forearms resting on the cool stone. He was tired, Prussia knew, but not unhappy. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Good.

Gilbert excused himself for a moment and fetched a glass of wine for each of them. Though he normally wouldn't even come near the stuff, he decided that this fancy-shmancy ball was enough of an occasion.

Besides, he'd decided to wear the white tie dress code this time, so why screw it up now?

Roderich looked at him gratefully, taking a sip and turning to face the palace gardens. Gilbert put the glass to his lips, but wrinkling his nose, decided not to drink it after all.

He promptly dumped the sissy alcohol when Roderich wasn't looking.

"So, specs," he began after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "It looked really easy for you to dance in the girl's role."

Austria took in a bit more of the champagne before replying.

"Eliza and I had just gotten married." Prussia pretended to ignore this statement.

"She didn't know how to waltz, and she wouldn't let me teach her until she had seen it done in person. Vash stopped by and was forced into it by Elizaveta, and of course he refused to be the girl, regardless of how short he is..."

This fact seemed to bother Austria, so Prussia stored it away for later blackmail, choosing not to comment.

Roderich had another glass of wine before the orchestra started up again, with an apparently familiar tune.

Prussia's hand was suddenly grabbed, and a much more eager Austria looked into his eyes.

"I love this piece."

Prussia was pulled out to dance, some complicated oscillation that wasn't in his dancing vocabulary. Austria, however, was doing fine in leading from submission, gliding across the floor and counting under his breath again, looking at Gilbert with the most peculiar eyes.

Roderich somehow got Gilbert to dip him as the song finished; and the Austrian promptly released Gilbert's arm in lieu of using that hand to pull him down for a surprisingly passionate kiss.

Prussia responded immediately, pulling Austria's body to a more extreme and deliciously sexy arch as he plundered the aristocrat's mouth.

They parted moments after, not wanting to cause a scene, but the look Roderich sent his way had no regret in it; eyes dancing behind his glasses with an amused and rebellious light.

A moment passed, and the dancers around them faded away as Roderich's finger traced up a strong arm, looking up purposefully at Gilbert with quite the subdued smirk on his face.

"Shall we take this upstairs?" came the Austrian's soft murmur.

Gilbert couldn't move fast enough.

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**M'kay, so this entire thing was supposed to end in lemon, but I can't ease into that stuff. It always looks so copy/pasted in, you know? Ugh.**

**Basically, I wrote this thing just because I wanted to test my lemon-writing skills, then didn't write the lemon. FML. –dies-**

**I need to stop reading Hazel-Beka, or at least get a Prussia x Austria patch or something.**

I _breathe_ this pairing.


	8. Paedophiliaphobia

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own as much Hetalia as does a hobo on the street.**

Summary: England fears his feelings for America and desperately tries to deny them.

Pairing: (Implied One-sided) England x America

Rating: T

* * *

_Paedophiliaphobia

* * *

_

Sometimes England forgets just how much growing up America has done over the years.

There are times in the meeting hall, scattered with chairs and half-formed ideas, when he catches a glimpse of sky blue eyes and is whisked away to windswept prairies and bright summer days.

He remembers an encounter with a small child with eyes like the heavens and a heart to match. A fight with France over custody, undocumented; like so many other petty fights.

Crying when he realized he couldn't win the child's love.

Crying once more when he did.

He remembers teaching an alphabet and how to spell, sentence structure and vocabulary. The colony's mind was prone to wander, though; exploring the endless blue sky behind the clouds in his eyes.

He remembers back to many things, in that glance.

Back to Jamestown and fever; exile and massacre. Giving thanks and taking plenty.

He remembers a tea-stained harbour that he'd rather forget.

"_Hey, England. I've been thinking…"_

Stealing cannons.

A rainy day.

An empty musket.

That horrible twelve-letter word.

"_I want independence."_

And oh, if America had only learned to keep his powder dry, then England knew he would have a beautiful scar to show for it; a mark to permanently identify his shame at the incredible loss.

A constant reminder.

What a masochist he was, here in his mind where nobody could see him.

He remembers the flute and drums and trumpets, and he remembers falling to his knees and squelching in the mire and wishing that it didn't have to be like this, that he hadn't taxed America to his limits.

He remembers watching the boy from afar wondering when he'd gotten so big, and wondering where he'd been during the process.

"_You used to be so small, America…"_

He remembers Spain and the Monroe Doctrine, remembers stepping in to provide support for his little brother-

No, that wasn't right. His ex-little brother.

Just to give him a stance in a world that was just too big for him.

He remembers a dazzling white smile hiding tired eyes and a promise.

"_Thanks, England. When I get a better navy, I promise you, I'll pay you back."_

A famous phrase, now. He'd really just brushed the boy off at the time, because children like Alfred didn't _grow_, didn't _thrive_, and they _certainly_ didn't "pay back" the sophisticated English in _troubled times_.

Children like Alfred had internal struggles and suicides and assassinations, and were read about in the 'Daily Tribune'; in an article written by a nobody named Cuthbert to be an accompaniment to a piping hot cup of cocoa on a foggy weekday morning before work.

But America promised, and though England was skeptical, he pretended to believe.

"_One day, I'll be your hero, England."_

And gradually, grudgingly, America had become his hero. Internal struggles and assassinations he'd had, of course; for who hadn't?

But it was a mix of that earnest determination, the belief that he was always out to do good, and the fact that Alfred's self-confidence radiated off of him that won Arthur over.

Perhaps England was not impressed, but _Arthur_ was spellbound.

His little brother was doing spectacularly on his own.

No, his little brother no more.

America was spectacular.

He wished he would stop being reminded of it.

England would see America strong and confident, laughing wholeheartedly. Smiling, joking, happy. He looked well.

He also looked good in a suit, but he should have ignored that when he had the chance to stop his sick obsession.

_It all really started when Alfred showed up in that damned suit_.

England couldn't help these musings; but who could?

He could remember as though it were yesterday. Alfred had shown up fifteen minutes late for a New Year's party at Arthur's house, star-spangled tie and a sleek, black tuxedo. The blue in the tie brought out his sparkling eyes, he remembered thinking.

He looked almost dangerous. Perhaps Arthur had been watching too many Bond movies as of late. But _God, _he just looked so fluid and professional and _sexy_.

Damn him, he shouldn't think of his little brother like this.

_No_, he thought, _not his brother anymore._

Excuses helped him get through his denial. Yes, America was drop-dead gorgeous.

No, he shouldn't think of him like that. Yes, he'd raised the boy. But did it matter? He hadn't turned out the way England had planned, after all… No, he'd never gone after him in that manner when he was still small; a child with a bunny who wanted a big brother to look up to.

Damn him to hell.

Damn it all.

Many sleepless nights followed, many spent mumbling the name of his tormentor into his pillow. Valentine's Day. His never-ending support, masked and not.

How blind was Alfred? One would think that Texas would improve rather than impair the boy's sight, but no.

Preposterous and improbable. Fuck the bastard.

Fuck America.

Fuck Alfred.

Really?

No, he hadn't, but he wanted to.

Oh, damn it all. What was he thinking?

"Iggy. Earth to Iggy!"

He blinked hastily, feeling a sharp pain in his cranium as his vision focused into crystalline eyes.

"Hello! This is Houston; do you read me, space cadet?"

England flailed about for a moment, regaining his bearings while America laughed.

"Now whose head is in the clouds?" the other teased, and England blushed and merely looked a bit ruffled. The meeting continued, Arthur observing the object of his attention with devout interest throughout.

No, he thought, he would continue this insanity in secret. Perhaps one day he would act on it, but it was too soon. Far too soon. Until the cries of hope and change and liberty and justice rang true and quieted America, he would remain in this way.

Poised and at the ready; any moment now.

Just not yet.

* * *

_xxxEnd_

_

* * *

_

**Yeah... I was away for a while, and I wrote this... I like the America x England pairing, but there has to be at least some semblance of disgust with himself deep down in there, right? I just figured I'd try to broaden the spectrum and explore it... it was interesting.**

**Anyway, feel free to drop a review.**


	9. Cute

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Romano owns potatoes.**

Summary: Spain doesn't think that 'cute' really covers Romano.

Pairing: Spain x Romano

Rating: T

* * *

_Cute

* * *

_

Spain has begun to rethink the concept of "adorable". Because, really, he doesn't think Romano is adorable.

_Italy_ is adorable, with his perpetually smiling face and beech nut skin and a puffy lower lip from pouting and biting...

Romano is not.

Romano is coffee skin and chocolate passion in fiery green olive eyes.

As Spain stares, espresso lips turn downward in a less cute but _sexier_ version of his brother's pout, plump lips stuck out and looking so delicious; even more so when a dark pink tongue peeks over in an aggravated lick of anticipation…

Romano clears his throat.

Spain swallows and smiles as obliviously as he can manage, kissing Romano on the forehead.

"You're so cute, _Lovinito_."

Cute didn't even _begin_ to cover it.

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**Been a while, eh? This is supposed to be drabbles, but I can't seem to finish anything and just wanted to post this before I get grounded for life… enjoy!**


	10. Dicing Tomatoes

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Romano has sanity in this drabble.**

Summary: Technically, it's my own fault for ignoring him.

Characters: Romano, Spain, Italy

Rating: M (for sexual themes, sensitive ideology)

* * *

_Dicing Tomatoes

* * *

_

I glare at the counter, still strewn with flour and tomato juice, as though the faux marble surface is to blame for my husband's unfaithfulness.

Technically, it's my own fault for ignoring him.

It's probably what drove him to lengths to cheat with my little brother in the first place.

He was always the favorite, after all.

Not to say that he didn't ask for it, because he was; begging

"_Please, Antonio, per favore…", bodies pressed together on the counter_

like my hands during Mass the next day, praying that this would never happen again,

_begging my husband to take him and acting like such a slut; he knew I was there, in the_

house, cooking dinner for two again. There were disgusting things in the kitchen that night, as I recall; so I gathered them up and buried them in the backyard

_and it was dark, so dark. I gazed at the mounds of soil in front of me,_

trying to figure out whether oregano or basil would be better for this dish, trying to return to normality even as

_the Spanish guitar thrummed through the house as he tried to serenade me the first time, my father said that he would kill him; I told him that killing Antonio was my job and my job alone with a smile-_

I sit at the table and wait for Antonio to come home as the fettuccini cools and the tomato sauce starts to congeal, sticking together

_like my hands during Mass the next day_

and my gaze wanders to the counter, still covered with flour and tomato after two months,

_and I stand there and watch with a red-stained kitchen knife as the two lay there, as though I'm not even there and the tomato sauce is boiling over onto the counter – did they even notice?_

The clock strikes two in the morning and I eat the pasta in front of me, then cover

Antonio's plate with plastic wrap and put it in the refrigerator with the many other plates of food; maybe he'll want them later,

_smiling and teasing me for my cooking skills even as he shoves another forkful of the not-as-good-as-my-brother's spaghetti into his mouth_

because I was never as good as my brother at anything, everybody always loved him best

_because he made such beautiful noises as the flour clung to his back_

and I hated him. Hate him. Because he's still alive, isn't he? If he's not, then

_he must be dead, I remember thinking, but no, the red on the knife was from dicing tomatoes, not from puncturing his flesh over and over in an outrage, the blood covering he and my husband was not blood at all, the sauce boiled over and they were not paying attention; they were not dead, merely exhausted._

_Cheating on your spouse must be exhausting, I told myself as I began to dig outside, two holes between the tomatoes we planted together last spring and the statue of St. Peter that we had put over Antonio's pet turtle when he died in December_

and the next morning, I wake up and go to Mass and press my hands together

_like their flour-covered bodies on the counter_

begging for God to forgive my cheating husband and evil brother, praying for Antonio's safe return

_even as the Spanish guitar begins to overpower the church organ though nobody is there-_

rosary in hand, don't let them go to Hell,

_and it feels like my white shirt is stained with tomato juice,_

my father screaming in Italian for the guitar player to get off his property or he would kill him-

_but that was my job-_

praise be to Father, Son and the Holy Ghost,

_Amen._

_

* * *

_

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**So. THIS. Turns out I didn't get grounded for my English paper, so all is well. I've been writing a lot of Prussia x Austria lately, but I don't like any of it enough to post it. THIS, however…**

**Tell me what you think. Sorry that there isn't any fluff. (This should probably be its own oneshot…)  
Based on a prompt from the kink meme, but I can't remember where it was… one of the fills incorporated a Spanish guitar, and now I can't get the image out of my brain… so now it's here, instead. The prompt was something like, "Nation A finds Nation B cheating on him with Nation C, Nation A slowly goes insane," or something like that. Anyway, I hope that I conveyed the lapse rather well. Formatting is a bitch.**


	11. A Small Flame

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Switzerland owns expensive cheese.**

Summary: Switzerland is burning away… but the flame is small, so it shouldn't matter, right?

Pairing: Onesided Switzerland x Austria

Rating: K+

* * *

_A Small Flame

* * *

_

It is small, there is no doubt, but it is definitely a flame.

A _small_ flame, mind you.

Miniscule.

In fact, if you asked Switzerland, it was not a flame at all; and when pressed on the matter, he would write it off as annoyance or hatred. It's all a ruse, and everybody seems to know it besides he, himself.

Rather, everyone aside from himself and Austria.

There is a flame, even if it _is_ small.

No matter that there hadn't been a touch or a call to feed it for years and yet it _still_ burned on; the strength and persistence of it didn't matter a smidge. But it was _small_.

No matter that he pointedly avoided violet eyes in empty halls and steered clear of classical music.

No, the measures he took to keep the flame small were insignificant as long as the fact remained that the flame was _small_. The end made the means inconsequential, or so he told himself.

He would never admit to the way it would consume his being for weeks on end when his eyes traveled a bit too far left and found amethyst, or when the room he passed suddenly began spilling over with Chopin and Mozart.

It was annoyance, Switzerland convinced himself as he tucked Liechtenstein into bed every night.

Annoyance in the fact that Austria dressed well and put up a front of wealth when he was just as conservative as Switzerland was, in the fact that he was such an entertainer in the way that he tended to all of his guests, annoyance in the fact that all of his guests were tended to equally…

Annoyance, that's all it is.

Annoyance that makes him call out his name in his feverish state of dreaming.

That makes his heart race.

That makes him _burn._

And Switzerland is prepared to tell himself this until the end of eternity.

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**Man, I've been gone for a while, eh? You didn't notice, don't lie… anyway, I was somehow converted to Austria x Switzerland, though I still appreciate Prussia x Austria… and a threesome would be awesome.**

**ANYWAY, I hope you enjoy, this was really just a time waster… and trying to get back into Switzerland's mindset, because I somehow ended up RPing a Switzerland who got pregnant(? Don't ask…) had a miscarriage and turned into a total mother hen. Emphasis on the "mother".**

**I also blame RPing, it's taking up my life… but I wub my Austria. BLAH, anyway, thanks for reading~!**


	12. Tick, Tock, Tick

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Canada has self-esteem.**

Summary: Canada has a conversation with a knife.

Pairing: Prussia x Canada (Implied)

Rating: T

* * *

_Tick, Tock, Tick…_

* * *

The grandfather clock tolled in the foyer again. America had called once more, but he'd ignored it, simply staying here, in this room. Punishing himself. So many good things happened in here, and the visions of them dance around him now, translucent and nearly tangible; but as he weakly reaches out with bony fingers, they turn to him with their bright eyes, eyes so full of mirth and laughter before skittering backwards, just out of reach. He doesn't know what to do.

His eyes are dry, but a trail of salt still runs from the corner of his eyes to his chin, itching and itching; but he can't work up the strength to brush the tears away, drained from the act that caused them in the first place. Sometime while he had been letting his sadness loose, he had gotten up and retrieved one of the kitchen knives from the set; a small one, but sharp. It lay on the table now, mocking him with its gleam; even while the rest of the house was dark and dismal, winking at him with false light from the moon.

_You won't even pick me up. You're a coward._

It seems to laugh at him, like the countless dancing figures swirling around the room; the scent of butter and pancakes filling his nose even as he tastes iron on the tip of his tongue.

"Go away," he murmurs, hoping that by some miracle, the thing will fall off of the table and leave him in peace.

_But you're the one who brought me here._

"Yes, I did, but that was a mistake," he replies, quiet. He is used to this sort of puppeteering. Making inanimate objects talk to him when nobody else is around. Kumajirou was the start when he became an English colony and he hadn't done it recently, but… in an echoing house that groaned with the frost of winter and the whipping winds outside, he had started doing it again.

_If it was a mistake, why did you bother doing it?_

The knife strikes with a sharp tongue, true to its name.

"I don't know why I did it. It just seemed like a good idea at the time," he says, voice barely audible over the faint ticking noise of the clock in the hallway.

_Kind of like marrying Prussia?_

"Shut up," he says, and he brings skinny hands to cover his ears; ineffective because the knife's voice is all in his mind in the first place.

_But it's true, isn't it? You were high when you got married. Isn't that what they call 'foresight'?_

Canada cringes and a cold bolt of ice creeps down his spine.

"P-Perhaps, but I liked him before, anyway…" he whispers, closing his eyes.

_You know how to shut me up, don't you, Canada?_

The blonde's eyes immediately open.

"No, no, no. I won't. I promised that I wouldn't, not anymore. I promised Québec that I would stop."

_It didn't stop you before, even though you knew how he would feel… and what good are your promises, anyway?_

_You promised Prussia that you would always be his, didn't you?_

"I-I still _am-_"

_No excuses! You know as well as I that you gave yourself over that night, completely and without _shame, _for God's sake-_

"M-Maybe n-not in b-body, b-but my heart was always h-his!"

Not a sound.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick…_

Canada can feel memories moving around him; making dinner, crafts with Québec, teaching Prussia to cook, breaking up fights… he feels the little things; the whisper of fabric as Prussia leans over to bite his ear while he's trying to make a decent meal, he can hear the faint snort of laughter after he's done something particularly dopey; even behind his eyes, he can make out the glint of the iron cross in the low light.

_You know how to make me quiet, Canada._

"Sh-Shut _up_, I don't _need_ you, I just need-"

_Québec? Yes, sure. Drag the poor boy in here to hold his maman in his time of need, even though he's breaking inside at the sight of you._

"S-Stop, _please…_"

_You know what to do if you want me to stop, Canada._

"But I don't _need_ to-"

_Then why did you bring me here?_

"I-I told you, it was a _mistake…_"

_Je t'aime, I love you, ich liebe dich-_

"Please, _please_, stop this-"

_I'm thirsty, Canada._

The blonde picks up the knife and flings it at the nearest wall, sobbing hysterically and burrowing his head into his bony arms; his tears flowing freely while the implement vibrates back and forth, tip stuck completely into the wall and its covering.

The silence following slices through the mirages; and the visions, the smells, the subtle sounds that reminded him of better times dissipate into the nothingness that they were born from.

_Tick, tock, tick…_

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**So… angsty Canada. This is actually a part of an RP that I have going with my Austria, but I think it works as its own little ficlet, so here it is. The backstory isn't told in detail, but I think it gets across. Just to make sure, what do **_**you**_** think happened between Prussia and Canada before this drabble? You can go as far back into the past as you want.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	13. Mismatched Socks

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Italy owns brains.**

Summary: (High-School AU) He was like a top drawer of mismatched socks. Ludwig hated top drawers of mismatched socks.

Pairing: Germany x Italy

Rating: K+

* * *

_Mismatched Socks

* * *

_

He was like a top drawer of mismatched socks.

Ludwig _hated_ top drawers of mismatched socks. Sometimes he could deal with people who were like a ball of tangled twine, or a pile of broken sticks; but he couldn't deal with people who were like mismatched socks. They were nuts, and Feliciano was the nuttiest.

The Italian was a perfect little fashionista, but he couldn't deal with wearing a helmet to go biking. He couldn't run unless it was _away_ from something, and he couldn't keep quiet unless he was supposed to speak.

Mismatched socks was the best way to describe Feliciano, though his mind was also a lot like a ball of multi-coloured rubber bands. It was full of vibrant ideas, never used to its full potential, and could deflect most physical forces with its bouncing joy.

Ludwig hated – _hated_ him. He never left him alone, and he had almost been kicked out of school twice for his poor grades; even though his grandfather was the principal. The only redeeming qualities Ludwig could find in him were his artistic skills, and even then, he found him useless.

Useless little Feliciano.

Useless little Feliciano, who, when he held a paintbrush to canvas, could match up his socks and glue his sticks together to create a dazzling Earth from a simple circle.

And Ludwig loved him.

Loved how he wouldn't leave him alone, loved the way he babbled on about pasta and useless things in that melodious voice of his, loved the way that he didn't _care_ about how useless he was. That was an art in itself.

And yet he hated him.

Because when he put the paintbrush down, the sticks broke apart and the socks became a jumbled mess in the top drawer of Feliciano's mind as, once again, he transformed from a beautiful swan into a clumsy webbed-foot duckling.

And, no matter how soft the duckling's down was, Ludwig couldn't help but hold it in contempt until it picked itself up with it's awkward knees and looked at him with those big, round, innocent hazel eyes; and even then he hated him.

He hated Feliciano because, no matter how desperately Ludwig tried to keep himself organized, the Italian could always turn his heart into a drawer of mismatched socks.

And that was why he loved him.

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**So… it's been a while. I keep writing depressing things lately (since my bf of three years dumped me over text during vacation, wah), so I wanted to branch out and start being happy… and I realized that I had never written any GerIta. Which is pure Hetalia-verse blasphemy. **

**I hope you all can forgive me, I'm at a trying point in my school year, and I'm really trying hard, for once… also, please, don't ask me any more questions about ****Ahora Podeis Besar al Novio**** for a while, I don't think I'm going to work on that until summer vacation; though that's pretty close at hand, anyway.**

**Thank you for reading, please drop a review if you enjoyed this!**


	14. Perfection

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Hungary owns feminine charm.**

Summary: Switzerland was infatuated, but at the same time couldn't stand him.

Pairing: Austria x Switzerland

Rating: T

* * *

_Perfection_

* * *

Switzerland was obsessed with perfection; with things running as smoothly as possible. Every intricate detail had to go off without a hitch; every click of the rifle, every hinge oiled, every deadline met. He dealt best with cold, hard facts – the simple truth – no matter how bitter, he could swallow it without so much as a grimace.

Austria seemed perfect. Calculated precision in everything; in his decisions, in his music, in his integrity. Every button in every eyelet, every seam stitched together perfectly, every glint in his glasses and every movement; without a motion wasted.

Switzerland was infatuated, but at the same time couldn't stand him. The two-facedness was something he had been sensitized to; in the army, your squadron had to be composed of perfect trust, there couldn't be any doubt.

Austria's decisions were calculated, but they were made by somebody else.

His music was an escape rather than a hobby.

His integrity…

Well, maybe his _integrity_ was intact.

But still.

The way he acted important when he was humble and the way that he acted humble when he was important both drew Switzerland up the wall. He dressed up to go out, but everything underneath the navy blue topcoat and cravat was patched and frayed; sewn together for decades to make something fragile and ragged.

And yet.

There was a certain lilt to his voice when he spoke to Switzerland, a certain look in his eye; a certain tilt of his lips.

This isn't to say that Switzerland was a blushing maiden under Austria's gaze, because he wasn't. He let Austria know _exactly_ how detestable he was whenever they spoke, whenever they kissed, whenever clothes fell away and their bodies tangled heatedly under rustling sheets.

And Austria accepted it.

He seemed to drop the façade a bit around Switzerland, partaking in a few more sheepish grins and sighs of annoyance.

It wasn't enough, but they couldn't change for each other overnight; so Switzerland made some changes, too.

"Smile when you feel like it," Austria had once said to him, stroking a cheek with a soft, unblemished hand, "You have such a beautiful smile."

So Switzerland smiled.

Grudgingly, at first; but, after a trial period, he began letting them loose without even realizing it. It wasn't even Austria who told him about it first; it was Liechtenstein.

"Bruder," she had said one morning when Switzerland sat down at the kitchen table, in a sweet voice like angels and hot chocolate, "I woke you up this morning, and you were smiling… you have a nice smile."

In a weird way, Switzerland was glad to change; if it was for Liechtenstein.

A small smile here, a squeeze of the hand there.

It didn't hurt that Austria liked this change as well.

"You're so beautiful," he would murmur against his skin while Switzerland panted below him, and he knew that Austria was full of bullshit because he was _scarred_, and _damaged_ and _that's what war does to countries_; but Austria said it anyway, and it made his pulse flutter uncontrollably.

And yet.

There were still those _flaws_, lying about the way Switzerland looked _ravishing_ and _stunning_ and _jaw-droppingly gorgeous_. The way his fingers would play along Switzerland's thigh as though it was an instrument during meetings, acting as though he didn't know what was going on as the blonde would flush red.

His stupid bedtime routines and the way Austria refused to believe that brushing one's teeth before sex could possibly be a turn-off.

Switzerland realized that he wasn't perfect, and he realized this fact infinitely more in Austria. Their imperfections, he thought, could fit into each other and maybe, _maybe_ create something close to it.

He was willing to change, if it was for Liechtenstein.

For Austria.

For perfection.

* * *

_xxxEnd_

* * *

**Love this pairing, but it's very hard to write Switzerland IC for me… hopefully, I'll get better eventually.**


	15. Black Olives

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Greece owns tact.**

Summary: Greece shares a companionable moment with Japan, black olives, and a calico cat.

Pairing: Greece x Japan

Rating: K+

* * *

_Black Olives

* * *

_

"I take it that you are here for a reason, _Girisha-san_?" Japan asked the silent Greek, never looking up from his paperwork. An open jar of black olives sat in front of the documents; a pair of chopsticks lying innocently beside it.

"Not really… besides… I don't need a reason… to see my boyfriend." Greece moved to sit at the other end of the small table, his posture emanating laziness.

Japan hesitated for a moment before putting his pen back to paper and finishing a paper, filing it away and looking up at Greece again. "I prefer the term 'significant other', _Girisha-san_," he responded after a short silence. "I am just not quite comfortable using that word, yet."

Greece nodded and yawned. "Alright, then… I prefer being called Greece, unless… you'd like me to start calling you _Iaponia_ again..."

Japan's expression remained stoic, but a faint blush found its way across his cheeks as he bent down to continue working; his short black hair swishing into place to shield his face from Greece's gaze.

To say that Japan was a prude would be wrong. Anybody who had ever read one of his comics or seen one of his shows could tell you that. However, there was a certain truth to his seemingly celibate manner; Greece had never done more than hold hands with the man, although the other was certainly a master of _teasing_…

That, however, is a story for another day.

But for today, there were black olives.

Greece closed his eyes, vaguely curious as to the reasoning behind Japan's choice of snack this afternoon, but it wasn't really important. He could eat black olives if he wanted; it wasn't as though Greece was going to stop him.

Japan pushed his papers away after a moment, picking his chopsticks up with a grace that Greece had come to admire, dipping the utensils into the jar and coming back with a sleek black olive before raising it to his mouth and popping it between his lips.

Greece decided to concentrate on the cat in his lap instead, petting it and rubbing it behind the ears, only turning his attention back to the Japanese man when he heard telltale purring from the tiny calico.

"You are very good with animals, Greece." There was a small smile seeming to peek out from behind the corners of Japan's lips, and Greece couldn't help but smile back. The name still came out with a bit of an accent, but it was forgivable.

The Greek had no qualms letting it slide – after all, Japan was adorable when he was trying very hard to do something.

"Thank you, Japan… you're very good with animals, too…"

The other's smile seemed to widen just a bit before he turned his eyes back to the jar, taking another black olive and slipping it into his mouth, the same as the first. Pulling papers back, Japan looked back to his work, hair falling over his face as he chewed softly.

Greece couldn't help but watch. He knew it was redundant, but Japan was very graceful, even doing something so simple and ordinary. He wondered for a brief moment whether his thoughts were creepy, but dismissed them at a moment's notice after realising that everything he thought was true regardless of whether or not it was creepy.

" You're very graceful, Japan…" Japan raised his head at that and just barely smiled again, letting the black olive pit slide through his lips and into an open hand, placing it onto a dish on the side of the table.

"Thank you, Greece… I take it that grace and Greece must go together well, in that case."

Greece closed his eyes, smiling to himself. Japan was sharp, as well. Of course, this was a commonly known fact, but the fact that his brilliant mind was moving to make him happy… that, in itself, made him happy.

The Greek reached across the table again and plucked the chopsticks from Japan's nimble fingers, meeting the look of surprise with a glance to reassure the other as he placed the sticks back onto the table and intertwined their fingers.

"_S'agapo, Iaponia._" It was barely a whisper, eyes closed and hands squeezed.

The rustle of a patterned kimono sleeve, the tentative touch of soft lips of the back of his hand.

"_Boku mo Girisha-san ga suki desu._"

Greece smiled and closed his eyes, the jealous calico kitten on his lap jumping onto the floor.

"Are you almost done with your work, Japan?" It was a courtesy question; Greece already knew that the papers were almost finished. Picking up the chopsticks, he fumbled around to pick up an olive until the Japanese man's hand closed over his to guide him. "I'd like to see some of your temples…"

"Of course, if you want to see them. I want you to enjoy your stay here, Greece."

Greece slipped the olive into his mouth, chewing lightly around the pit as he smiled.

"You know, Japan… sharing chopsticks… that's like an indirect kiss."

The Asian man bowed his head to his work again, short hair swishing gently to cover his features.

"I know."

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**I hope this is alright, I didn't want to proofread, lest I despise it and cast it away as I have so many other short stories.**

**Don't be afraid to leave your honest opinions, I promise, I've grown up!**

**EDIT: Thank you for correcting my Japanese, Tamer Lorika and wednesday1990. I'll admit that I'm not fluent, though I do practice. Rosetta Stone doesn't really teach you about particles, you sort of have to fend for yourself… so thank you very much!**

**Also, are the dividers not showing up for anybody else? It's really annoying. I'd understand long dividers, but dashes, too? SAD FACE.**


	16. Meetings

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. I own less Hetalia than Denmark owns a clue.**

Summary: I blame the results of our next meeting that day not entirely on alcohol, but mostly; which seems a qualified excuse, as I _was_ both drunk and at a pub.

Pairing: Denmark x Norway

Rating: T

* * *

_Meetings

* * *

_

The first time I had to deal with him today was at a world summit.

"Ah, my precious _Norge! _Come here_--_!"

My fist collided remorselessly with his face as the world looked on, what could be interpreted as an amused smirk on Sweden's face.

The next time I had to spend time with him was while I was out grocery shopping with Iceland.

"_Norge,_ come to _Danmark_--!"

That time it was a sharp knee in his gut. Other than a small group of humans in the frozen foods section, only Iceland was around; but his laughter was enough to make me smile.

Though, if I'm honest with myself, the pained expression on Denmark's face could have done that on its own.

I blame the results of our next meeting that day not entirely on alcohol, but mostly; which seems a qualified excuse, as I _was_ both drunk and at a pub.

"Come back home with me, _Norge--_!"

I ended up smashing a beer bottle over his head. Like hell I was going home with him. I may have been drunk, but I wasn't _that_ drunk. I would _never_ be _that_ drunk.

The next time I saw him that day, he was at home with me. I'd been forced by the owner to drag him out.

I guess I _was_ that drunk.

I stick by the fact that while he was in my care, I didn't hit him... much. After all, if I had, he might have thrown up on my couch, considering the fact that I may have given him a concussion with that bottle.

Not that it wouldn't have served him right.

He kept mumbling my name in his sleep, though, so I got up and left the room. I didn't care if he threw up, I wasn't going to be spending any more time with him.

…at least, that's what I thought.

When I saw him again that day, I was hitting him once more. Though it was on the back this time, trying to make sure that he emptied the contents of his bowels into the toilet bowl and not onto my nice, clean, tiled bathroom floor.

You'd think that, as a former Viking, he would be able to handle his alcohol. It was only a few dozen pints, after all. Pathetic, really.

The last time I saw him was when I was tucking him into my bed, after forcing Alka-Seltzer and water down his throat with the threat of a beating should he refuse. That moron was going to have a terrible hangover the next morning.

I had seriously considered giving him Tylenol or Ibuprofen, just to see if it would kill him. But I didn't.

After all, I'm almost sober. I'm definitely not _that_ drunk.

After a lovely night spent on my couch which now smelled of Dane, much to my displeasure, I woke up with a glorious crick in my neck that reminded me very much of the same Dane.

The only thing that made the morning even remotely pleasant was hearing that idiot throw up in the bathroom for a good half hour.

Served him right.

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**This was something quick I threw together while I was supposed to be writing my English essay. DON'T JUDGE ME. Anyway, this is because Norway is not as much of a pushover as most characters, though you can still see that he likes Denmark if you squint REALLY REALLY hard.**


	17. To Hold

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. ****Myself**** is to ****Hetalia**** as ****Russia**** is to ****Friends****.**

Summary: Russia wants to cuddle after a night with China, but China isn't so eager.

Pairing: Russia x China

Rating: M

* * *

_To Hold  


* * *

_

"R-Russia_…_"

The air is thick and enters their lungs as densely as molasses, Russia already satisfied and China close to reaching his own bliss. Legs burning, minds numb; passionate marks scattered over skin slicked with evidence of their exertion.

"Mmm… China…" A tender, almost childish kiss is pressed softly against the column of China's neck and he shudders a final time, allowing his body to divulge in its own short-lived pleasure. "…thank you, _tovarisch…_"

They stay that way for a while until China catches his breath, his ribs tight and his pulse swollen with adrenaline. The Asian nation finally makes a move and lets himself off of his younger lover with a bit of effort; exhausted, sweaty, sticky, but satisfied all the same.

"You're welcome, aru…"

Strands of China's hair cling to his skin like leeches, having been taken out of their normal ponytail. He feels dirty and desperately wants to shower, but his limbs and chest are still trembling with the aftershocks and he isn't sure he can make it to the bathroom in his current state.

The short man pulls a cool, silk sheet over his chest and closes his eyes, resolving to clean himself up once his legs resemble something less like jelly and more like flesh. China doesn't manage to hold even a quick moment of peace before arms have encircled his waist, pulling him into an embrace.

"Russia… get off, aru…" He brings his arms up and half-heartedly pushes at the younger man's torso, hoping that the taller man will obey him and let go, even though he knows that it's too late. The once-cool sheets have been pressed against his skin already, and are now uncomfortable as well.

"I don't want to, though," Russia mumbles into China's hair. "You're warm…"

China sighs and squirms a bit, trying to crease the sheet so that is not sticking to him. He had half hoped that Russia would fall asleep, but he hadn't. It wasn't as though the Asian had a problem with cuddling, but such an activity was far more suited to a cold night in Leningrad than to an abnormally warm night in Shanghai.

"Exactly… I'm warm, and you're already warm, too… you're sticky, aru! Let go…!"

"But I like being warm, China… and you're cuddly…" Russia sounds as though he is about to cry, as though he doesn't understand. The elder of the two squirms a little more in protest, but a squeeze is enough to quiet him again.

China sighs quietly, moving his head to pull away the wisps of silky, black hair that have decided to stick to Russia's dampened chest, as though rebelling against moving any farther from the younger man. He figured that he was already sticky and hot; it wasn't as though this was going to kill him.

Sticky; sticky and hot and sweaty… China desperately wants that shower; he wants for the cascading, heated water to slip over his body and separate natural grime from his skin, swirling down the drain and never to be spoken of again.

Lying in this heat and scent is like writhing endlessly in the act itself, and China isn't exactly proud of himself for it. Sex is a spiritual act, in his culture; more about the connecting of souls than of bodies. The act they had just partaken in had been about the connection of bodies.

Sex before marriage isn't frowned upon as much as it once was; even if he, himself, found it morally wrong, but – China rationalizes – they _had_ been married.

Before, at least.

China isn't sure whether his ability to stay calm while being enveloped in the warmth of a man to whom he isn't married is a leap towards modernization or just a lion's leap from tradition. Either way, it makes him sick.

He waits for the possessive arms around him to grow lax and calm before slipping out of them, pulling one of the many sheets from the bed and wrapping it around his waist in an unobserved, useless display of modesty.

China quietly opens the door to the bathroom, closing it silently behind him with the faintest suggestion of a click. He stuffs the bathroom mat underneath the door to prevent sound from escaping.

The spray pours down at the slightest movement of his wrist, soaking both hair and skin to effectively wake him up. He quickly lathers his hair with shampoo, combing fingers through the soapy strands to help wash it out. China takes a small facial towel from the inner shower door, soaping it up and running it all over his body, leaving sleek, shining skin in its wake.

He lets the water skim its curious, fluous fingers across his body and through his hair, liquid limbs conforming to embrace his body and project into him a reassuring sense of calm in a brain that is stormy with calamity. China's mind is cleared and he is finally able to relax, trapped steam curling about his ankles like an affectionate litter of kittens.

He ties his hair back and lets the spray wash away the aches and pains of old age and scars, so preoccupied in his reverie that he does not notice the hushed squeak of the bathmat under the door pushing against the clean white tiles of the floor.

An obsidian gaze darts to the figure at the door and then relaxes, China stepping forward to let his lover under the spray.

The Russian lazily lets the water through his hair, not bothering to clean it properly, then retreats behind China; hugging the smaller man to his chest.

"I woke up and you weren't there…"

An unspoken admission of concern made its way through Russia's voice, and China briefly wonders if the younger man even knows that he's doing it. Maybe it is simply something that he has picked up on his own after such a long time wandering the planet.

"I'm sorry," he replies softly, leaning back into the embrace; hoping that he can be heard over the whisper of the steam and the thrum of water beating down on his skin, clean and stretched tight like a drum. "I felt dirty."

Russia's chin rests on the top of his head, and it bothers him a little bit; since he knows that Russia hasn't scrubbed his skin yet, hasn't rubbed away sweat and grit and skin down the drain, and China had _just washed his hair_, but he doesn't say anything; letting his lover collect his thoughts.

"I don't mean to make you feel dirty," Russia mumbles like a child, apologizing to a girl whose hair he had dipped in ink. China feels like the guilty young girl, knowing that the ink would wash out of her hair and still demanding an apology.

"It's okay, aru… _you_ don't make me feel dirty…" His hands move up to rest over Russia's forearms, as though to assure the other that he's here _now_, and that he isn't going anywhere. "It is just… the sweat. Sticky… I don't like it. "

China turns around in Russia's arms, now; lathering up a small amount of shampoo in his hands. He stands on his toes to massage the foam into Russia's hair, leaning heavily on the other to make sure that he doesn't slip on the slippery tiles.

"Okay…" His lover sounds skeptical for a moment, but he closes his eyes and visibly unwinds as China's fingers coax the filth away. The Asian smiles lightly and lets the spray of the showerhead finish the work, giving them a few moments to stand together in an enveloping calm.

The water begins to cool over them, but - China reasons - Russia probably doesn't notice. So he takes the other's wrist and tugs it lightly, turning off the water and leading him out of the shower, making Russia bend down so he can dry his hair, slightly amused by how fluffy it becomes, like a baby panda.

Drying himself off, China wraps the towel around his waist, pulling Russia along behind him and back into the bedroom. Letting go of his wrist, he pulls a robe over his shoulders and ties it, turning back to see Russia straightening the corners of the bed.

He rolls onto the bed, facing the other with a smile. "Thank you, Russia."

"You're welcome." The Russian lies down as well, only a faint smile on his face, but at least it is one that reaches his eyes.

China inches over to him on top of the sheets, lying down beside the other and slinging an arm over his lover's waist. "Dream something beautiful for me, aru…"

"I don't need to dream…" Russia yawns sleepily as he takes the opportunity and pulls China close to him, earning no resistance from the other. "You're better than a dream… I'd rather stay awake…"

China is glad that Russia's eyelids have betrayed him and shut over tired eyes, saving him the embarrassment of his blushing cheeks. "Don't be stupid, aru… go to sleep…"

Russia lets out a noncommittal grunt, breathing slowly with sleep already. China can't help but smile as his hand finds its way to the back of Russia's head, fingers carding through damp, grey-blonde hair. He moves himself up slightly, pressing a tender kiss to a warm forehead before moving back into the possessive embrace.

"I'll dream of you," China confessed with a quiet smile, closing his eyes at last as he allowed slumber to claim him.

"_Wo ai ni._"

* * *

_xxxEnd_

_

* * *

_

**My thoughts for this one were… the uke always wants to cuddle and the seme always wants to smoke a cigarette or take a shower. I think that it's opposite with Russia and China, though, since Russia is more childish and China is much more mature.**

**I'm not really sure about this… I liked writing it and I'm proud of it, plus it's my first completed RoChu, but I'm hesitant about submitting it. Feedback would be most appreciated. Thank you for reading!**


	18. Guardian Angel

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Austria owns plentiful new clothes.**

Summary: AU- Elizabeta learns to cope with an impaired Roderich after a life-changing accident rips his life apart.

Pairing: Austria x Hungary

Rating: K+

* * *

_Guardian Angel_

_

* * *

_

I never really thought that I'd be back here again.

After we broke up in eighth grade, I didn't think I'd ever be back in Roderich's house; but now we're in college and here I am.

I hate him so much right now. I love him. I love him so much.

I glance into the guest room, stepping quietly so he doesn't know that I'm here.

He's playing the piano as though nothing has changed, eyes closed in concentration.

Hiding behind his eyelids and drowning out the truth with Mozart.

I tiptoe quietly until I reach the carpet beneath the couch, sitting on the velvet cushion before watching him quietly.

Roderich still wears his glasses, even now. He doesn't need them, but he wears them anyway.

He doesn't want anything to be different.

He finishes his piece and opens his eyes, staring blankly at the piano keys for a few moments. I really do worry about him.

But he closes the cover and pushes the bench back, scaring me as its back legs start to tip, but managing to stand up alright.

"Elizabeta," he calls out to me, fingers still resting on the piano cover. I come over quickly and take his hand, glancing at the music book resting on the piano. Chopin.

_This is why I'm here._

"You played beautifully," I tell him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

He doesn't really respond other than a small, mumbled bit of gratitude, and he begins to walk as I walk with him, lightly guiding him before he runs into the door frame.

_I'm here because, after all these years, I'm still the one Roderich turns to first for guidance._

"Keep a hand on the railing," I remind him as he almost trips on the first step on the grand staircase.

"Thank you, Elizabeta." He walks well, considering the accident.

_The month before, Roderich had been performing a piece as a sort of audition for Julliard. They said they would contact him later, as he had explained to me, "when" he had been accepted into the school._

_His parents had gotten in from Austria that night; they had intended to surprise him by watching and congratulating him at the end of his recital._

I open the door for Roderich and let go of him, he ambles over to his bed and collapses onto it, rolling over and sighing.

"Come here, Elizabeta," and I cross over to him, lured by the soft, lonely lilt in his voice.

_Their flight was delayed due to a thick fog that had descended over New York City that night, and they barely knew enough English to find their way to the music hall. They'd already called and told me their plan, so when they didn't show, I tried to get Roderich to stay a little longer._

He sits up as I sit on the edge of the bed, moving closer to him. I rest my hand on his leg, and he touches my arm in return; kicking off his slippers. My sandals fall to the carpeted floor as well, and I can barely hear him breathing over the deafening ticking of the old fashioned clock on his desk.

_He had plans, though. I waved goodbye and waited by a bench, where I had promised to meet the Edelsteins if they missed the performance, but they never showed up._

_I heard the screeching of tires not far off, and I set off jogging to find out what had happened, if I could help in any way._

Roderich's hand moves up my arm slowly and comes to cup my face, his other hand moving up to join it on the other side.

"You're so beautiful, Elizabeta," he murmurs, thumbs stroking my cheeks.

_In the car was a couple – I couldn't make them out in the fog._

_Lying on the ground a few yards away was Roderich._

_Sweet Roderich._

"Thank you, Roderich..." I trail off because I really don't know what to say, everything in my body feels so tense at this point.

_The car seemed to have tried to swerve too dramatically and rolled over as a result, but I couldn't get the doors open. I called the police and rushed Roderich to a hospital. His hearing and motor skills were unharmed. He had sustained serious cerebral damage, so the doctors said that he was lucky to be alive._

"So very beautiful…" he repeats, nearly a whisper, and I gaze helplessly into his eyes.

_Roderich was blind._

"Ich liebe dich," I tell him with the smattering of German that I know, trailing my fingertips down his back. He smiles softly and closes his eyes again, and I brush that one strand of hair out of his face.

"Ich liebe dich auch."

_The couple in the car had been his parents. The police officer told me that they had been crushed under the sheer mass of the car, and I was left to break the news to Roderich._

_That was when I decided that I would take care of him, protect him from both the world and himself so he would never again have to lean into my arms like this and cry like a frightened child, blindfolded and lost._

I slide his glasses off of his face and place them on the nightstand, and he grips my wrist. "Elizabeta… please stay."

His voice doesn't shake, but I know that he's afraid that I won't be there and I move my hand slightly to brush my fingers against his arm.

"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."

I help Roderich back toward the headboard and tuck him in, situating myself beside him.

I sit up and touch his chest lightly, gradually moving to his face and swiping two fingers across his lips so I won't startle him. He keeps his eyes closed, which makes this sort of easier, and I lean in to lightly kiss his lips; my heart warming slightly when he kisses back.

"Sleep well, Roderich," I croon as I pull back, noticing how tired he looks.

_Tomorrow._

"As long as you're here, Elizabeta." He smiles slightly and gradually falls asleep under the covers while I stare up at the ceiling, unable to do the same.

_I'll tell him tomorrow that he was rejected by Julliard._

_

* * *

xxxEnd

* * *

_

**I haven't written anything in a long while, and this is my first het in an even LONGER while. I'm sorry to dissapoint those waiting for **_**Ahora Podeis Besar al Novio**_**, but I don't think I can continue to add weight to that sinking ship… if I find a jolt of inspiration for it, I'll definitely try to continue, but as for now, don't wish too hard for it. (It's the screwed up formatting that really gets to me, and I'd like to fix it up before I actually move on...)  
**

**I'd also like to know what pairing you'd like to see next in this series. I have plenty of Austria, as you can see, but I don't feel like my chapters of Sweden x Finland, England x America, Spain x Romano or Denmark x Norway really counted.**

**What do you want to read, readers? Try to catch me before my inspirational writing bunny dries up and dies!**


	19. Bruised Wrist

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Spain owns cash, today.**

Summary: It wasn't here, it wasn't there; he didn't see it anywhere.

Characters: Spain x Romano (brotherly)

Rating: T (for language)

* * *

_Bruised Wrist_

_

* * *

_

It wasn't on the table. He'd looked there, already; and there was tomato sauce dripping from the tablecloth to prove it. He hadn't meant to knock it over, and who the hell leaves a jar of tomato sauce randomly open near the edge of a kitchen table, anyway?

His guardian was an idiot.

He hopped off of the chair, almost falling onto his face, and pushed the chair to the counter. It took a while, but he managed it; even though he thought he would die when the back legs tipped back a few times. He struggled to climb on top, then gripped both of the chair's arms with chubby fingers and peered through the spaces in the back.

It wasn't on the counter, either. He picked up a banana that was near his face and dropped it onto the floor just because there had to be _something_ that suffered from his tiny wrath, since his brother wasn't home.

He climbed off of the chair, huffing.

The next room to get this treatment was the living room, with the throw pillows that were thrown onto the floor, unzipped with feathers everywhere because, damn it, he was angry! He tripped over a glass of juice that spilled into the expensive rug, so he pulled a deflated couch cushion over to cover it.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to cry.

Mostly, he wanted to punch something really hard.

He climbed up the stairs, next; using hands and feet to move as fast as possible. Getting onto his hands and knees, he shimmied under the dusty bed and sneezed for a good minute before realizing that there was nothing under there.

He ripped the sheets from his bed and curled them around himself, sniffling and looking at a bruise around his wrist.

He'd had the bracelet for six years, now. It had his name spelled out in silver letters: L-O-V-I-N-O. He'd taken it off the night before so it wouldn't get hurt in the bath, and this morning, it wasn't on the kitchen table where he'd left it.

Little Lovino cried himself to sleep, not hearing his guardian call his name an hour later.

He didn't hear Antonio climb up the stairs.

He didn't feel him lift the sheets from his head, didn't see him smile at his tears.

Didn't see him slip the silver bracelet back around his wrist, extended by the jeweler he'd bought it from when he'd first been given custody.

* * *

_xxxEnd_

_

* * *

_

**In case you're confused; this was for an English class and I only had forty minutes, so I just pulled out our cute little Latin boys and decided to write about this. The prompt was "Write about somebody who lost something."**

**Basically, Spain is Romano and Italy's brother or guardian and he got them both bracelets when they were still small, and… idk. Romano's bracelet got too small, so Spain stole it when he got the chance to get it hammered out a bit and made bigger.**


	20. Talcum Powder and Broken Combs

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Japan owns remorse.**

Summary: It was too late for regrets, too late for goodbyes; too late to kneel and apologize.

Characters: Japan x China (main, AU, brotherly)

Rating: T (for language)

* * *

_Talcum Powder and Broken Combs_

_

* * *

_

We only ever saw him at New Years. Chinese New Years, that is. We had all split up and disappeared after we'd graduated from college – none of us had even ended up in the same country. I'd ended up in Tokyo, and my younger, adopted brothers had ended up in Seoul and Bangkok, respectively.

We didn't respect him. We know that we didn't and we are ashamed; but it was too late to patch things up between us all. There was no way we could try to bridge a gap like that from so many kilometers away, not after the ways that we'd all hurt him.

"Please," he'd called over the phone so many years ago, his voice hoarse; "I need you to come for dinner, just tomorrow... your siblings, too. Please."

It was so much easier to pretend that I couldn't hear him when we were speaking in person.

It was always awkward to have New Years dinner together – usually, we would all show up and gather around the table, pretending that everything was normal.

And he pretended that he didn't notice how we badly we wanted to leave.

He would be cheerful as he served fish, chicken, beef and pork and rice, bowls and bowls of the steamed white rice that we'd always clamored for more of when we had been so young and innocent with our large, dark eyes and clean-cut black hair.

Our abounding affection.

He would always lead us to our rooms, in those days; tuck us into our futons and tell us ancient stories with this faraway look in his eye as though he had been there and was reliving the whole ordeal, when the sky and the earth were separated, when the farmer's wife was born an ugly little frog.

He never told us about his aches and pains, the long baths that he had to take while we were at school just to ease him through his caretaking life.

Never told us about the cancer that was eating him from the inside out.

Never spoke of how much his old bones hurt when he forced his arthritic fingers to make the _baozi_ we had always loved.

We always took him for granted, and that's why it was so surreal.

_A white cloth over the doorway to the house where we were raised, a gong hanging to the left._

People always used to tell me that life was too short; I used to get bookmarks as presents from my college friends who told me to put them to good use and take a break.

_The lengthwise mirror that once stood proudly in the foyer was covered in black cloth; too large to be moved from the house._

He looked so peaceful, dusted with talcum powder. I had a sudden urge to dress him in red, even if it would upset the progression he would have wanted - to hear his gentle voice urging me on, telling me off, sighing with disappointment, laughing with mirth.

_Anything_.

But his lips were still, hands clasped peacefully over his stilled chest.

I watched solemnly as my brother placed a yellow cloth over his face, as my sister drew a blue cloth over his body that could no longer feel the pain – his body that no longer suffered from the cancer that had stolen the breath from his lungs and the sight from his eyes.

It was cruel, I thought as we brought the three-humped coffin through the doorway, that the cancer had made off with his health and vital signs like a bandit and decided to leave his body so immaculate, so beautiful; but still and unlike his personality.

The cancer had stolen it all away.

His hair like strands of ink, his eyes even more so; shining and bright. The healthy dust of cranberry that lit up his cheeks when he was happy, the soft curve of his shoulder when he was craning his neck to read Yong Soo's sloppy handwriting.

I wanted to pull the sheet from the mirror as we walked by, I wanted to go if he was going.

But it was too late for such thoughts; those thoughts were decades old and coated with a fine layer of dust.

He had breathed his last breaths from a hospital bed, so the coffin was placed in the courtyard, his head facing the home. We each bowed our heads and placed offerings of food; the spicy pad Thai that my brother had learned to make in Bankok, the beautiful sugar cakes with pink icing roses that my sister had always dreamed of baking, the _baozi_ that tasted so much like his own but so were so different that we all blanched at the smell.

We broke his comb in half and left half with him, but since we all lived apart, we were not sure who would keep the other half.

I volunteered, since I was the most responsible one.

We ate cold cheese sandwiches – the triangular kinds with no crust. They were tasteless in our mouths and we stood around awkwardly, unsure of exactly what to do.

I have heard that the wake is intended to celebrate the life of someone dear to you. How does one go about celebrating the life of someone he didn't let himself get to know?

We all wore black and my sisters cried the hardest.

It's customary to do so.

We shielded our eyes and turned away as the coffin was sealed, the burning incense stung my nose and I felt tears prick at the corner of my eyes.

It was too late to cry about his death, so we cried from the incense, instead.

_We're sorry, brother._

_N__ǐ__ hěn b__ǎ__oguì._

_

* * *

_

xxxEnd

* * *

_**N**__**ǐ**__** hěn b**__**ǎ**__**oguì – **_**You are very precious… Mandarin, I think.**

…**in case you didn't get it, China died.**

**I'm not sure exactly how Chinese funerals go, but… a friend described them as something like this.**

**The prompt for this one was… "Write an essay with food as a thread." It sort of went off track, though…**


	21. Six Letters, Form of Communication

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than America owns tact.**

Summary: Alfred finds that it's hard to repair a break in communication by communicating. Arthur is detached.

Characters: America and England

Rating: K+

* * *

_Six Letters, Form of Communication

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_

"Eight letters, the fourth letter is a Q. Average or substantial?"

"Adequate."

His green eyes skimmed the newspaper headlines, _Two Men Found Dead After Nottingham Bombing, Dozens Injured._

"You know, Arthur… I don't think we talk enough."

He turned his head from his newspaper and blinked, as though completely confused.

"No, no. I'm certain that we talk far too often already; it's nice to have times like these when I can read my newspaper in peace."

Alfred chewed on his pen, looking up at him from his crossword.

"Yeah, but we've been having a lot of those times lately. Don't you want to talk? How's the weather been, here?"

"Rainy, as always." Arthur brought his eyes back to his newspaper, turning the page. "It's London, I don't know why you'd expect any different."

"Bummer."

It was quiet for a moment, and Arthur thought he'd dropped the subject; rejoicing in the quiet.

"Six letters, another word for pigment."

"Colour."

Alfred made an indignant noise.

"How gullible do you think I am? I can spell, color only has five letters!"

"Not in Britain, it doesn't."

"That's what I mean, I don't visit you much anymore, I would have remembered if you'd let me spend more time with you."

Arthur sighed, because really. This again?

"You visit me all of the time, there's hardly a time when you aren't here. You should have a summer home here by now, honestly."

A summer home would be good, Arthur always left during the summer.

"Nah, it's better here. I like being with you, you know? Nine letters, naïve."

"Innocuous. Anyway, do you ever go home? You do have an apartment in New York, don't you? Or was it New England? I never could bother to learn your silly American geography."

He turned the page again, skipping over the main story and reading an editorial about Harrods, instead.

"It's New York, Arthur. I went to Berkeley, remember?"

Alfred had stopped chewing on his pen and was now doodling little circles around the edges of his crossword puzzle.

"Why would I remember that? I don't expect you to remember the college I went to."

"Cambridge University, but you did a year abroad at the University of Munich. You told me before, when I had to carry you to your room because you couldn't remember where it was after that party."

Alfred was chewing on his pen again, and Arthur made no acknowledgement that Alfred had been correct, choosing to keep reading. Apparently, chocolate sales had gone up during October. It didn't take an expert to tell you that, and it irritated Arthur.

"Give me another one."

"Six letters, ends with an A. France was known as this to the Romans."

"Gallica, you didn't even know that?"

"You wanted a word, you didn't say you wanted a hard one," Alfred replied, penning in the rest of the word.

"Give me a hard word."

"Wholesome, hygienic, beneficial. Ten letters, there's a B somewhere in it, it's-" he paused, counting them, "-the fifth letter."

Arthur thought for a while.

"Try the word salubrious."

Alfred put it in.

"You know, you just don't visit anymore. If you'd fly over to my place sometimes, I wouldn't have to bug you over here as often."

"Maybe if you'd stop visiting so often, I'd have a reason to fly over there."

That got Alfred quiet. Arthur took a sip of his tea.

_Salubrious._

He snorted and went back to reading the paper, skimming the article about the bombing. Apparently, one of the people who'd been injured was a high-school cricket player. She'd had to have a leg amputated to save it from the shrapnel of the window she had been standing next to.

It was mean-spirited, but Arthur wondered for a moment who was stupid enough to stand next to a window in a situation like that. Everybody knows that bad things happen near windows when there's a crisis.

"Do you ever think that maybe if you'd call and let me know how you are sometimes, I wouldn't have to knock on your door to make sure that you aren't dead? I mean, you're getting on in age, old man."

"I'm twenty-seven, you're twenty-five. Don't get ahead of yourself, lad."

"You're an old soul."

Arthur listened to the grandfather clock ticking in the foyer and chose not to answer. Maybe it was true.

"Maybe we should stop doing this," he suggested finally, sighing with his speech as though he found the topic unworthy of being separated from a sigh. "What do you even do? I can't remember."

"I'm a fireman," Alfred offered, voice cracking a little bit. "I wrote you a letter about it last month."

"Did you, now? Interesting." Arthur flipped the page again. The girl was optimistic that she would be able to get a prosthetic and be able to play cricket again within the year. Good for her.

"Maybe you're right," Alfred said, chewing on his pen again. "Maybe we do talk too much."

"Glad that you agree, love," Arthur replied, and speech fell away to make way for a grandfather clock, the occasional scribble of pen on flimsy paper and the turning of thin pages.

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**English class prompt, again. "Write something with a lot of dialogue." I thought I'd go with an awkward conversation about the lack of conversation, here.**


	22. Montonelli

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Austria owns masculinity.**

Summary: Erzsebet ___Héderváry was defined by her shoes more than by her accent._

Pairing: Austria x Hungary

Rating: K

* * *

_Montonelli

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_

___Erzsebet Héderváry_was an interesting woman. Hailing from Hungary, her name was so hard to pronounce that everybody at the shop just gave up and called her Liz, despite protests.

"Erzsebet," she would exclaim, "it is not so hard to say!"

What really made her stand out, though; was not her lilting Hungarian accent that made her sound like Bianca from _The Rescuers_. It was, in fact, the pair of sandals that she wore to work every single day.

The soles were made of a pristine, soft-looking white material and the thong was made of shiny black leather; a flower made of the same material placed strategically at the spot where the two pieces of black conjoined.

Being tall, she had no need for pumps like some of her vertically-challenged colleagues, and she took advantage of it.

"What, these old things? I bought a pair of them from Budapest before I came to live here."

Roderich could tell that she was proud of them, though. He'd seen her during her breaks, varnishing any bit of the much-loved leather that had been scuffed or sponging and buffing the soles so the irregularities wouldn't get caught on the boardwalk when she looked out at the ocean every Wednesday.

They knew he had a crush on her – why else would a man frequent a ladies' shoe store so often?

"Would you like to try on a pair of platforms today, _Herr_ Edelstein?" they would tease him, and he would cordially reject their offer, making them laugh. It was a joke, but Liz was stubborn and oblivious, so she never even noticed his reason for coming.

If a passerby hadn't pointed it out, he probably would never have even made the first move.

"I heard that you were off, today," he told her as he walked to the end of the pier, watching the sunset glint around her feet and cast bright shadows on the rugged wood. "I thought I might find you here."

She turned her head and smiled at him, greeting him with a quiet "hello" as though using her outside voice would stop the sounds of the tide or keep the sea breeze from blowing across her face.

They stayed like that for a while, watching orange and yellow melt into misty pinks and oranges. She shifted slightly and Roderich placed his coat over her shoulders; a swimmer below them gave a shrill whistle. Their eyes traveled to look at him – a blonde, tanned speck in loud red, white and blue swim trunks.

"It's the perfect moment, dude! Just kiss her already!"

And, an introverted person by nature, Roderich did not; instead stuttering about how invasive such a request was and didn't your mother teach you not to meddle in other people's lives?

Erzsebet just laughed and moved her freshly buffed soles across the splintered wood and planted a kiss right on his cheek.

"He had a point," she told him, "you have no sense of timing."

Roderich just cleaned the mist off of his glasses and tried not to melt through the cracks in the pier.

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**Bold font means that the story's over. Sorry. The prompt was "Write a story in which a pair of shoes is extremely prominent."**


	23. Jobless, Careless, Chairless

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Prussia owns chairs.**

Summary: Gilbert's day is terrible already – his brother waxed the floor and he slipped, missed the bus, he got rained on – but the chair was his last straw.

Character: Prussia

Rating: T (language)

* * *

_Jobless, Careless, Chairless

* * *

_

Great.

Just great.

Gilbert's day was already horrible – a power line had been taken out in his neighborhood, so his alarm clock had reset and didn't go off that morning. His brother had decided that 5:00 AM was the perfect time to scrub the tile floor in the kitchen, so he'd taken a tumble against the counter and now had a prominent bruise on his pale forehead to show for it.

After that, he'd run to the bus stop only to find that his morning bus had shown up early, so he had to run to catch the train. Of course, catching the train couldn't be an easy task; oh no. Instead, the heavens opened up and the rainwater that burst forth drenched him to the point where he looked like a drowned rat.

Getting on the train, there was a creepy old woman sitting across from him the entire ride. She didn't take her eyes off of him for four stops.

…okay, maybe that hadn't made his day any worse in the long run, but it was definitely freaky!

After that, Gilbert had escaped the train as soon as possible and bought a twenty-dollar umbrella at the train station only to find that the rain had let up. He threw the umbrella away, swearing something fierce in German, then checked in and went up to his cubicle.

This brings us to the present – six thirty in the morning, dripping into the tacky, coffee-stained carpet on the third floor of his dreary office filled with people who despised and conspired against him daily for their own amusement.

All of this would have been acceptable, if it hadn't been for his chair.

Oh, yes. His chair.

Gilbert wasn't even sure what his job was anymore, or where he was, or who his employer was. He had given everybody in his office a nickname for himself to snicker about when they weren't around to hide the fact that he couldn't really remember their names. Four-Eyes, Fatty, Easy, Violent, Narcoleptic and Spaghetti-for-brains were only a few.

He'd nearly been fired four times now – once for being late and the other three times for pranks which, in the end, couldn't be traced back to him. Gilbert was rather proud of that.

There were a few rules at the office, rules that must never be broken.

Rule number one: don't sass Four-Eyes or he'll dock your pay behind your back.

Rule number two: the customer is always right, even when they're obviously stupid and have no idea what they're talking about so you should just shut up and let them run themselves into the ground.

Rule number three: never sleep with Easy; nobody has ever come back from tapping that as a healthy man.

And the fourth, most important rule of all: never touch a man's office chair.

The chair was sacred.

You could mess with the cubicle all you wanted; set wedding photos on fire, scribble all over the kids' drawings, draw on a colleague's computer screen with magic marker, but messing with another man's chair was taboo.

Everything that had happened so far that day seemed inadequate compared to this, and Gilbert stomped down the line of cubicles, passing Cheerful and Stoic, skipping right over Creeper and Happy, angling himself to get right to the office of the company manager – Mr. Pompous Bigwig himself.

Gilbert unceremoniously opened the door to his boss's office and plopped down in the chair in front of the desk - sopping wet, slightly poorer, without an appointment and honestly not giving a damn.

"And to what," came the snarky, contemptuous voice from behind the desk, "do I owe the pleasure of this meeting, Mr. Beilschmidt?"

"I would like to inquire as to the whereabouts of my chair," Gilbert intended to say, but instead all that came out was "Where did you put it, you micromanaging weasel?"

"Simply put," began Mr. Pompous Bigwig, "as of today, you're fired."

Oh.

"Like that makes it okay to take my chair," Gilbert retorted.

"The chair is company property, Mr. Beilschmidt."

"The chair is mine."

"Not any longer, it isn't."

By the time he had finished collecting everything in his cubicle, it was the end of the working day. To be honest, he only really had three or so personal items in his desk, but he spent the entire rest of the day bemoaning his sad fate to anyone who would listen.

Such people were few and far between, but who cared what their opinions were anyway?

They were losers, anyway; Gilbert didn't need them.

Gilbert sighed and stood with his big cardboard box with a potted plant, an iron cross and a malfunctioning laptop inside; waiting for the rain to stop pouring.

"…didn't you bring an umbrella? There's rain all over your face…"

The soft voice took him by surprise, but he definitely didn't jump three feet into the air and cry out in surprise, definitely not.

"Haha, yeah, of course I did! I just seemed to have misplaced it is all…!"

As he wiped off his face with a sleeve, an umbrella was hoisted over his head suddenly, the other person suddenly very close.

"You're going to the train station, right…? I am, too; I'll walk you there."

Gilbert turned to look at Quiet right in the face; then scoffed and – had he not been holding a large cardboard box with a fake plant a necklace and a broken laptop inside – would have most likely crossed his arms.

"Fine, but only because you're so desperate to be in my awesome company…!"

Quiet smiled a small smile with bright eyes; it was kind of cute if you liked that sort of thing. Maybe the skies weren't so grey, after all.

…well, figuratively; at least.

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**Blah blah blah. My prompt was "Your hero/heroine shows up to work one day and his/her chair is missing. How does he/she react? What happened to the chair?"**

**Four-Eyes is Austria, Fatty is America, Easy is Poland, Violent is Hungary, Narcoleptic is Greece, Spaghetti-for-brains is obviously Italy, Cheerful is Finland, Stoic is Sweden, Creeper is France, Happy is Spain, and Mr. Pompous Bigwig is England. Oh, yeah, and Quiet is Canada.**

**(Also, guys, I'm flattered by faves and all of the story views, but if you could drop a little review now and then… that would be awesome. ;D)**


	24. Touched By Angels

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Liechtenstein owns sense in this short.**

Summary: "She's broken," Maman said one night. "Broken, broken, broken."

Characters: Switzerland, Liechtenstein

Rating: K+

* * *

_Touched By Angels_

_

* * *

_

When I was in first grade, there was a boy in my class who would stare at the ceiling with a strange look on his face and smile at everybody, but would also throw tantrums over the smallest things. When I asked Papa what was wrong with him, he told me that the boy was broken.

"Broken children are like broken toys, Vash," he told me, "if you know that they can't function properly, you should get rid of them."

Papa told me not to play with the boy. I didn't talk to a broken person after that, because Papa wouldn't like it.

When I was in third grade, Maman brought home my baby sister. She was wrinkled and red and she looked like a tiny monkey. She didn't cry, so I was worried because my friends told me that babies are loud and fat and always looking for attention.

Papa and Maman were happy, and they named the baby Lily.

After a few months, Lily could spell her name with her letter blocks; thanks to me. She was always happy with Papa and Maman, but sometimes she would cry for hours and hours for no reason, then she would go back to being happy in the blink of an eye. She rarely cried because she was dirty or hungry, it seemed like she just cried to make Maman tired and Papa irritated.

"Maybe there's something wrong with her," Bella suggested. "Babies are only supposed to cry when they need something, it's in my baby handbook!"

"Maybe you should try patting her back? My baby brother loved that," said Liam. "Of course, now he's a stuck-up brat and I hate him, but still."

I smiled at that, but I was still worried.

When I was in seventh grade, Papa and Maman got divorced. Lily and I stayed with Maman, but she was always sad and far away. I raised Lily myself, for the most part – I cleaned the oatmeal from her dress when she spilled all over, I sewed up the holes in her stockings when she fell down the stairs, I held ice to her arms when she'd hit them against the walls.

I hugged her when she screamed.

"Hurts," she would cry, sniffling with her dirty face, "big brother, hurts."

"What hurts?" I would ask.

"Hair," she would always say, pulling on it hard as though she didn't know how else I would understand. "Like somebody pulling on it. Hurts."

When Lily started going to school, I would walk her there. She never wanted to hold my hand; she always wanted to run down the sidewalk and sing at the top of her lungs. I had to talk to her kindergarten teacher almost every day; Lily fidgets in class, Lily tries to eat her crayons, Lily kicks other students under the tables and doesn't apologize.

"My little sister was like that, too," the cashier said as she picked up the candy rack after Lily knocked it over. "Here," she said, handing me a pack of M&Ms, "you can have them for free."

Lily was cute, or as cute as I could make her. I kept her hair chopped short; longer than mine, but short. She couldn't take care of it herself, and I didn't know how to take care of it, either.

"She's broken," Maman said one night while I tried to spoonfeed Lily, "Broken, broken, broken."

I thought of the boy in my third grade class, I thought of the woman who was always in the grocery store, and then I thought of Lily and her big blue eyes and how she would always try to chew on her hair if I let it get too long.

"Lily's not broken, she's special."

"She's touched," Maman said.

"She's touched by angels," I told her.

The next morning, I took Lily to get a ribbon for her hair.

"What color do you want, Lily?"

"Blue, big brother. Blue," she told me, chewing on her fist. "Blue."

I tied the ribbon into her hair, but she doesn't even look up.

"You're beautiful, Lily."

* * *

_xxxEnd_

**

* * *

**

**I thought it best to end it there. What do you think?  
**


	25. Mich Auch

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Canada owns self-esteem.  
**

Summary: "Who was the idiot who created society?"

Pairing: Prussia x Canada

Rating: T

* * *

_Mich Auch_

_

* * *

_

Unremarkable. Insignificant. Dull. There is nothing about Matthew that is extremely out of the ordinary. His fathers ignore him in favor of his twin brother, Alfred – the kind of high school kid who excels in sports and cheerleaders but is too naïve to realize that studying results in better grades.

What does Alfred have that Matthew doesn't? Well, sure; sports. Football is obviously going to be more popular in California than ice hockey. And hey, maybe there _is_ something to this whole "go to the beach and you'll get tan" theory. But Alfred can barely formulate a coherent English sentence without slang! Matthew speaks fluent French and is starting to learn German from a close friend; the only friend he can talk to. (Well, the only friend he has, anyway.)And – unlike his brother - Matthew can write in legible cursive!

Nobody pays him much mind, though.

He's not depressed. Of course not. He wouldn't say that people walk right over him if they hadn't at some point; wouldn't say that people ignore him if someone would pay attention for once. Who gets the best grades in Geography and Statistics? Matthew. Who cares? Nobody.

And yeah, maybe sometimes he gets a little down. When you're so uncomfortable with yourself that you're wearing a baggy, red sweatshirt in July and hoping to get one of those "I don't know what you really want so I got you this impersonal gift card" bookstore gift cards for your birthday, maybe your self-esteem is a little low. Matthew doesn't know. He's never felt differently, so this is probably normal.

His voice is a lot quieter than Alfred's. He doesn't speak up much because, let's be honest, who cares what a straight-A doormat has to say?

"You know what I hate, Gilbert?"

Matthew swings his legs over the edge of the school building, leaning against the rail. It's Friday, he has no afternoon classes. Life is good. And yet.

"_Ich weiß nicht,_" Gilbert replies, looking over at him. Gilbert does this sometimes. Matthew knows just enough of the basic phrases to understand, so occasionally Gilbert regresses back to German because he's too lazy to think in English. "You don't really hate much, so I can't wait to hear this."

Matthew licks his lips, suddenly nervous – but he has to say it now that he's brought it to attention.

"It's just… we'll never really amount to much, you know? We're in a recession, this is a crappy public school, there's nothing _remarkable_ about me." He glances over at Gilbert to make sure that he's still watching, red eyes focused solely on his face. "I don't fit, here. I hate heat. I hate this school. I hate all of these fake blondes and future skin cancer patients, I hate that Alfred's football games are always on the same nights as my hockey games. I hate that my Biology teacher would rather be toking up than grading my lab write-up right now."

Gilbert shakes his head and cackles, white hair reflecting light into Matthew's eyes. He squints and blinks a few times to fix his vision.

"You're so stupid sometimes that it's hard to believe that you're smart. Honestly, if anybody at this place is getting into college, it's going to be you." He clicks his tongue impatiently as he talks, as though buying time to translate words in his head. "You have a future as a CEO or at least a small business owner… I'll probably be working at some chocolate factory trying to imitate Lindt or in some stupid acting troupe which focuses on performances with Nazis in them."

Good point, work for immigrants who immigrate here legally is harder to come by because they have higher pay standards. Matthew had written a paper about it for stats. Of course, he had gotten an A. But his dads were far more interested in his brother's C+ on that stupid Physics project.

Matthew sighs and kicks his feet back and forth.

"That's not exactly what I mean. I'm trying to say… we're all going to die, right? So what's the point of… this?"

He raises his arms to the sky - motions to everything, trying to convey something that he feels but can't say.

"_Ich verstehe Sie nicht,"_ Gilbert voices, furrowing his brows and leaning forward on the railing. "I don't understand at all. What do you mean by _this?_"

Matthew looks for words in the far-off smog, in the dry grass on the ground below, in the rusted, red paint of Gilbert's Jeep.

"I don't know. Life? The universe? Everything," he concludes with a disappointed sigh, slouching over the railing again. "I mean, we're all just going to die, so what's the point of education and money and all of that other material crap? Who was the idiot who created society? Why should we have to go to school and grow up to have low-paying jobs so we can afford to go to the supermarket and buy an apple? Without society, we could just walk to a tree and pick an apple without that sixteen-year middleman."

Gilbert groans and grips the railing, leaning back and closing his eyes, facing the sky. "Don't be such a fucking downer, Matt."

"No, but really," Matthew persists, "is there a point? What the heck is… I don't know, prom? What is prom going to do for me later in life? I don't have a girlfriend, I'm not likely to get one, I'm not going to do what Feliks did last year and _hire_ one…"

Gilbert snorts like he wants to laugh. "The only reason they let Feliks hire a girlfriend for prom was because they wouldn't let him take a couples picture with his boyfriend."

"What's the point of intolerance? What does it do for anyone?"

"_Die Scheiße…_" Gilbert sighs again._ "_Matt, attacking everything that bugs you is not going to help you get past your angst."

"It can't hurt, since I'm going to die." Matthew visibly deflates over the railing; a pile of pale bones and long blonde hair. "Maybe I should just jump."

"Well… I'm going to die, too; and my future's a lot less bright than yours. Stop being a selfish jackass for a minute and think about it." Gilbert places a hand on Matthew's back, putting pressure on his spine. "If you died right now, who the hell would I go to? You know I don't have a goddamned friend in this country besides you."

A few minutes pass by in silence. Finally, Matthew sits up and leans against Gilbert, defeated. "Yeah, but you could always find another wimpy misfit to bully into submission." Gilbert gives a crooked, sideways grin.

"There aren't that many wimpy misfits that fit my criteria. I'd prefer to keep the one I have around for a while,_ danke sehr_."

Matthew lets out a quiet chuff and stops moving around, resolving to reply when his brain formulates back into something more usable.

"I love you, you know," Matthew murmurs after a while, closing his eyes. Gilbert chuckles and ruffles his hair.

"Don't be a homo, bro. There's no rule that says you have to take after your dads."

"Yeah, well, screw that. I love you." Matthew feels better, but sort of sick in his stomach; sort of like falling or riding on one of those too-tall roller coasters that Alfred always forces him onto.

It's quiet for a while before he hears a grudging "_Mich auch_," and it's all he needs to start smiling again.

* * *

_xxxEnd

* * *

_

**Blahhhh... I don't like this one very much, actually. Or at all. Those are basic German phrases, you don't really need to know what they mean...**_  
_


	26. Kryptonite

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than England owns cooking ability.**

Summary: America hurts him time and again, but England keeps coming back for more. (Unintentional harm, consensual.)

Pairing: America x England

Rating: T (lots of hints at sex.)

_

* * *

Kryptonite

* * *

_

A sigh wakes him, lashes reluctantly blinking away sleep. Lazy afternoon sun filters in through wide windows, bright blue skies invading his vision. America yawns as he turns slightly more to his side, pulling the man in his arms a bit closer.

"Mornin', sunshine," he drawls, watching green eyes roll back into England's skull.

England turns to him and plucks the smudged and out-of-shape spectacles from America's face, setting them on a side table. Only now does the American notice a dull ache along the side of his face, likely where the wire had been forced against his skin; smothered by his pillow.

He lets his head rest against the pillow again, loosening his grip around England's middle to watch him with an drowsy curiosity, fueled by the absence of caffeine in his system. The shorter blonde shrugs off his arms completely and massages what appears to be a crick in his neck with one hand, scowling. The sheets slide down a bit as he sits up, and suddenly the lovebites adorning England's neck are free for his viewing pleasure.

Alfred thinks he likes these best, the lazy mornings after when he's too tired to ruin England's mood and England is too tired to be difficult and stop him.

England gives some sort of a sigh of defeat and lies back against the mattress, and America suddenly wants nothing more than to gather him into his arms and hold him forever. Nothing but the two of them.

He watches as England grumbles to himself, trying to get himself to stand up. America lets him, quietly watching as the other walks to the bathroom, ruffling his own hair and silently grouching about something or other. Blue eyes watch him move away curiously, noticing things he didn't notice the night before – a small cut on his arm, ten identical purple bruises outlining pale hips.

America frowns and shifts to be a bit deeper inside of his cocoon of warm blankets. Why doesn't England say anything? America can be gentle.

He can try.

The blonde closes blue eyes and tries not to dwell on it; the limp that England gets for days, the bruises dotted all over his skin. The five parallel lines of blood on his back after their first night, the hats that England wore for weeks after that experiment with hair-pulling, the cracked ribs he'd gotten back before America had trained himself not to hold his lovers too tightly.

Time and again, he hurt England. Made him get cut and bruised. He would never forget last August. He'd laid out a picnic for the two of them, red and white checkered cloth in the middle of green grass; red, white and blue – red in his cheeks, white knuckles grasping a basket, blue skies stretching out forever behind England.

They had fun, hadn't they? – America forced down a few scones, England retaliated against cooking remarks, they kissed. Went home.

Had sex.

England had hit his head against the headboard a few times – a lot of times would be more appropriate to say, and violently - and for hours afterward he had been drowsy; responding slowly, looking sleepy.

America worried.

To the point where the other had to be taken to the hospital and – _oh God he'd given England a concussion._

As if it couldn't get any worse, sitting at his bedside and gripping his hand too tightly, he'd broken one of his fingers. England couldn't move his left pinky, anymore. But still, they were together.

"Why are we still together," America blurts out – sitting up in bed - as soon as England steps out of the bathroom, steam wafting through the room, "after I've hurt you so much?"

England furrows his brows – an impressive sight, as always – and sighs, coming to sit back down on the bed, thwacking America in the back of the head.

"Nitwit," he accuses. America doesn't even have the audacity to look offended. "It's because I love you, of course."

America continues to look unconvinced, frowning. "But I hurt you. A lot… so much, Arthur."

"It's – It's difficult, I'll admit," England starts carefully, "to keep from raising much suspicion from officials. But I know that you don't mean to do it, and I heal fairly quickly…

"I guess," he says, looking at America with those green eyes that know so much more than they let on, "leaving you for your natural strength would be like leaving me for my love of tea. It's part of who you are, and you can't change it…"

America pouts.

"Tea is hardly a good reason to break up with a person, England…"

England clears his throat as if to say "You clearly didn't think that a few centuries ago," but he doesn't press it.

"I guess you could say that… having the injuries reminds me of you. They don't hurt too badly, but whenever I took a deep breath and had that brief jab of pain, or when I try drumming my fingers on the table, I think of you."

America doesn't really understand, but the calming tone quells his anxiety for now. He extends a hand and wordlessly threads together his right fingers with England's left, taking care not to squeeze and pulling him close again with his spare arm, kissing his neck apologetically.

"I love you, you know," America whispers against England's skin, resting his forehead on the other man's shoulder.

"I know," England mumbles, face heating up, "and I'll have the bruises for a week to remind me."

_

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xxxEnd

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_

**Heyyyyy guys. Itsa me, Emmilene! I'm sort of on a writing binge right now (trying to stop being rusty, grah), I should have something else for you guys sometime within the next week. If all goes well, you'll get a taste of my guilty and obscure (read: nonexistent) favorite pairing – NorLat. Unf. And after that, I've been feeling the SpaRo bug biting, again; so… let's give this whole fanfiction thing another shot!**


	27. A Tribute of Ink

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than America owns tact.**

Summary: Alfred is avoiding Arthur: more specifically, avoiding showing his back to him.

Pairing: America x England (human names: Alfred x Arthur)

Rating: T (mentions of the three-letter S word! Oh noes!)

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* * *

A Tribute of Ink

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_

There were a lot of realizations that Arthur had come to during world meetings in the past. Usually, they were trivial things – his tie was a bit crooked, he'd accidentally left the kettle on the stove – things that were easy to solve with a slight of hand or a few whispers to his faerie friends.

Other things were a smidgen more difficult to address; such as Francis' blatant molestation of Antonio in the middle of Ludwig's presentations, Feliciano eating pasta in the middle of speeches without repercussions or Ivan's creepy stare (most often affixed to Toris, Eduard or Raivis). These might be resolved with a lecture on lechery, a lecture on proper meeting etiquette, or (in Ivan's case) a mask of feigned ignorance; unfortunate though the Baltics' situation may be. Currently, he was assessing the present situation – that situation being Alfred, fidgeting in his suit jacket and rolling his shoulders back.

A more difficult topic to tackle would be the subject of Alfred's back.

Arthur wasn't a stalker by any means. He and Alfred were in a steady (if somewhat unclear) relationship; they had been for several decades. The Brit remembered many instances where Alfred would readily throw his jacket and shirt off to jump into a pool, out of a boat into the ocean; they'd even showered together on multiple occasions. And out of all of those times, Arthur couldn't remember once seeing something on Alfred's back – a particular scar or mark – that would embarrass him.

And yet, for the past six months or so, Alfred's back had remained hidden from sight. Whenever it was Arthur's turn to top, the lights would go down – originally he had assumed that the American was trying to be romantic, but he had quickly grown out of that theory when the other had begun keeping his black tank top on, or when he insisted on taking separate showers ("it's hygienic-er," Arthur's ass).

Every nation had some sort of disfiguration that they were at least a little embarrassed to show; Yao had small burns from careless usage before the Opium Wars and the large gash from Japanese betrayal; Kiku had two large, puckered scars from Alfred's retaliation in World War II, and both Feliciano and Lovino had identical horizontal bands of raised, shining flesh across their midsections which they refused to talk about. Spain had a cross branded deep and red into the skin over his heart, Feliks still got touchy about Vilnius, and Katyusha would burst into tears and fold her arms over her chest whenever someone mentioned Chernobyl.

Arthur, himself, had nothing that he was particularly finicky about. In his case, his body was wrought with scars from civil unrest, fires, pirating, and many past wars that he likely didn't need to be involved in. Once his temporary partner had gotten over the initial shock of the pale blemishes, they acted accordingly – some would simply give up from the pressure, others would just ignore the marks and discard him in the morning.

When he had first shown Alfred all those years ago, the colony – barely appearing thirteen – had run from the room without a word. It had stung, to be sure, but the boy had come back with a jar of medical salve; all blue eyes and warm, small hands and golden hair. And, touching his curious, salve-covered fingers to every scar, he'd ask, "And this one?" to which Arthur would respond with a fantastical story about high seas and mythical forests, the same sorts of stories that he would tell the boy when, utterly spent in every way imaginable, he would fall asleep against the empire's sticky chest hours later.

Needless to say, Alfred was not one to judge another based on their scars; at least not seriously – he had his own, by now; a fake tooth from Pearl Harbor, another of the invariable thin, horizontal scars that seemingly every country had accumulated around his midsection, a small, almost unnoticeable burn over his heart from when Matthew had set fire to the White House all those years ago. Scars were just a fact of life as a nation, and Alfred had never been shy about letting Arthur touch him wherever he wanted.

So why was the younger nation covering his back so insistently?

Arthur approached after the meeting, carefully avoiding collision with the South American countries, for the most part already packed up and leaving. Alfred, true to his nature, had all of his papers spread out on the table and was having trouble organizing them. His tie hadn't been put on properly and Arthur bent down to fix it, receiving a kiss on the cheek.

"Hey," Alfred grinned, raking his papers together as though they were autumn leaves, "gimme a minute, I'll be done in a sec."

Though the obvious butchery of the English language made the Brit want to cringe a little (would Alfred be finished organizing his papers in a minute, or a "sec"? Arthur had no clue), it was only a minor offense: the American had made much worse linguistic decisions in his time.

So he waited and restrained himself from scolding the American for his harsh treatment of the papers (shoved into his briefcase and undoubtedly crushing their edges. Still, it was a step up from last time – Alfred had shown up with a _backpack, _of all ridiculous things to transport documents in). They traveled back to their hotel on foot, Alfred using the time to rattle off everything he could think of, from the new Burger King that had opened just down the street from his Kansas townhouse to how he just _could not_ get this new Katy Perry song out of his head.

Arthur, aside from making noncommittal remarks occasionally, used the time to mull over how best to approach the subject matter. He would have to be to the point, but not too blunt: if he was, Alfred would probably get "lost" in downtown Paris as a result of being hurt by what he would label an "accusation".

More often than not, Alfred would simply pretend to get lost in the busy urban area of a large city for well into four hours while avoiding someone. Arthur had accompanied him on a few of these childish avoidance maneuvers, but in doing so, he'd found that Alfred was surprisingly good at not being found when he put his mind to it.

Through the past few years, he'd realized that Alfred was not necessarily _stupid; _he merely chose to avoid certain situations with a well-feigned veil of obliviousness.

And then there were occasions when he was truly, infuriatingly uninformed and thickheaded and an absolute idiot; but instances where that was actually true were extremely rare compared to the amount of time that Alfred actually attempted to seem as dense as possible.

It took Arthur a few moments to realize that Alfred had hooked their arms together – he had been wondering why one of his shoulders was higher up than the other. In a short burst of playfulness, he tugged on his lover's arm, watching Alfred trip over his own feet and complain. He couldn't help but snicker: oh, how low his comedic standards had fallen.

They avoided greeting the stoic French woman at the front desk and took the elevator to the fifth floor; second room to the right – England's pulse was quickening even as he pulled the key card from his pocket. He paused while opening the door and bristled as a large hand touched his shoulder.

"Artie, are you feeling okay? You've been really quiet and you didn't even yell at me for saying 'gonna' a bajillion times."

Of course he'd pick up on it. It was just England's luck. He shrugged the hand off.

"I'm just… thinking." Arthur opened the door and stepped inside, folding his suit jacket over the back of a plush chair. Alfred followed suit, loosening his tie and throwing it haphazardly onto the coffee table – Arthur cringed at the abuse, but made no comment. "Actually, Alfred… I think we need to talk."

He didn't even need to look to notice Alfred's body tighten considerably from surprise behind him. Those were never the words you wanted to hear from your lover.

"Uh… sure, babe. I'll wait on the bed…?"

Insecurity. Just what he was trying to prevent. Arthur sighed and took his own tie off, picking his lover's up off of the table as well, unbuttoning the top of his shirt and pulling up his sleeves. A quick glance over to the bed revealed America, sitting with crossed legs and watching his every movement. He took a deep breath and moved to the bed, pretending not to notice how blue eyes followed his motions. Clambering onto the mattress behind his lover, he touched his hands to the American's back, inciting a shiver from the taller man.

"It's about this," Arthur murmured, letting a cool breath ghost along Alfred's neck. He could see transparent hairs standing up against the tanned skin, and he kissed the adjacent shoulder; hearing his boyfriend sigh. "Your back, I mean. You've been hiding it from me for some reason or another, and it's starting to interfere with our time together."

Lightly using his hands to circle Alfred's shoulder blades, it was easy to feel the other man tense and relax a few times, searching for words. It was reassuring to have Alfred this close – he wrapped his arms around the other almost subconsciously. _Don't leave me._

Alfred shrugged Arthur's arms off of him and moved to stand: Arthur experienced a brief moment where panic washed over him, but he managed to soldier through it and speak again. "I've already seen every inch of you, so if there's something that's bothering you, I'm sure it's not that bad—"

"It's not something you've seen before," Alfred mumbled suddenly, interrupting the Brit. "I mean… don't get me wrong, but I don't think you'd approve and all, since you're just so freaking' _British._"

Arthur was mildly offended, but rather than flying into a fit of British rage that would justify the American's accusation, he just crossed his arms.

"What do you mean, approve? Listen, if it's a scar… I don't care, alright? Nothing you've managed to do to mangle yourself would make me like you less."

Alfred sighed again, ruffling his hair and turned so his back was facing England, starting to unbutton his shirt.

"Before I actually take it off, I want to explain," he started, leaving the front of his shirt completely unbuttoned. "I had a dream a few months ago… where my mother visited me."

England remembered. The wise red woman with piercing blue eyes and pale, white mud smeared across her cheeks; always watching, protecting, hurting – a blurry vision of untamed freedom and still a very sore subject with Alfred.

"She was telling me a story about… something. How I still haven't lived up to my potential, about how I'm still destined for something greater… she came to me in the form of a great bird, so," Alfred let the shirt slip from his shoulders, "I had this done. You know, to remind me of that." Arthur's heart skipped a beat.

It was magnificent. Taking up his entire back was a black, stylistic tattoo – much of it outlining a wingspan and tail feathers, undercoat colored with the tan of unmarred skin. Talons spread possessively just above his hips and tips of the plumage stretched up to the ceiling, almost touching his shoulders. The contours of a proud chest were outlined in striking black as ruffled feathers puffed out and a curved, dangerous beak positioned itself just to the left of Alfred's spine. A single eye – the only one visible due to the profile of the bird's head – laid against a curve created by the beak; coloured a bright blue.

Arthur reached forward tentatively and touched his fingers to the tips of the creature's wings, almost expecting them to be soft. Alfred shivered under the touch, but didn't make a move as the Brit ran his fingers from down each perceived joint, finally moving his fingertips directly down the American's spine.

"I – It's an eagle," Arthur finally managed, spreading his hands to cover the wings as well as he could manage. Alfred relaxed a little under his palms, almost laughing as he replied.

"Yeah, I noticed that too."

Arthur sighed and rested his forehead between Alfred's shoulders, lacking words. He was upset, but only because his lover had regarded it necessary to _hide_ this from him. Troubling debt, mass homicide – those were things that should be hidden from one's lover to avoid irritating or worrying them, but something this trivial, this harmless, _beautiful_ even…

"Anyway, Arthur… sorry I didn't tell you, I just thought you'd get all proper on me and start lecturing me about dwelling on the past like a stuffy old man—" Arthur took that opportunity to softly cuff the American's ear, sighing loudly.

"Just… shut up. I'm not angry with you, but that can change quickly if you keep talking." He pulled the other man to sit on the bed as he stood up, beginning to take his shirt off. "When was it completed, Alfred?"

"A few nights ago, actually… I think the redness is gone, but it's still a little... tender." Alfred brought a hand up to his shoulder and held it there, watching Arthur again. "It should stop hurting in a day or two…"

The Englishman heaved a sigh as his lover absentmindedly chatted about the inking process, unable to stop thinking about how much of a crybaby America was and how difficult it must have been for him to not only go under the needle, but return repeatedly for the same treatment time after time. Retrieving a damp washcloth from the bathroom, he motioned for Alfred to turn over. He did so without much grumbling, letting Arthur climb over him.

He pressed the cloth to Alfred's skin, gently outlining the wings. If he was correct (and he was always correct), the tattoo artist had likely done outlining first and then filled in the rest of the blank space, so the part that would be hurting would be the bulk of the tattoo; the block of black ink in the chest and wings. Slowly, he dragged the worn material across the area, watching Alfred's eyes flutter closed with a soft moan. The Brit smirked, he could be a considerate lover, too – Francis could go to hell.

Pressing a kiss to the base of Alfred's neck, Arthur continued softly swabbing the areas of irritated skin, feeling the taller man nearly melt into the bed. When he decided that it was enough, he tossed the cloth to the side and straddled the American's waist, bending over and kissing him upside down, earning a laugh from his lover.

"Thanks, Arthur," Alfred chuckled, righting himself while attempting not to jostle the Brit (he was doing a rather poor job of it, so Arthur just spread his legs a little wider to give him room), "that feels loads better."

"It had better," he mumbled, feeling his face suddenly flush red. A pair of bare arms pulled him to a similarly bare chest, and suddenly they were kissing. Alfred's lips were warm – _Alfred_ was warm – and Arthur found himself getting tired even just from something like this. Kissing Alfred was like standing in harsh sunlight; spending too much time doing it would completely drain you of energy. He pulled away and rested his head on the aforementioned bare chest, feeling a second kiss on his forehead. "All things aside, you owe me at least ten – no, _eleven_ rounds of incredible, shirtless sex. In bright light. Possibly in the shower, as well. During all of which I'll be on top, of course…"

Alfred laughed and ruffled Arthur's hair, pulling them to a more comfortable position on the bed. "Sure, sure… anything you want, babe. And I'll eat some of your scones, too."

Arthur wasn't sure if he was joking or not, but it sounded nice. The two exchanged sweet nothings well after sundown until the island nation began to drift off to sleep against his counterpart's sticky chest, tanned fingers still stroking up and down his pale, scarred spine.

And for the first time in months, he felt completely comfortable.

_

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xxxEnd

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_

**I think I'm going to give up pleasing the FF dot net masses. I'll just write for myself from now on. Myself and Rosie and possibly Lorika. I don't even know who reads these, anymore… the charts says that they're popular, but you'd never guess from the lack of response. XD**

**MY GLITCH HAS BEEN FIXED! ~*jig*~**

**Anyway, my muse is significantly more lively and present in this fic than in the last one I presented to you... and I'll be working on the Spain x Romano oneshot next; then I'll focus on fixing and updating that dusty old monstrosity that you people still like... for some reason.  
**


	28. A Lone Star

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than America owns companionship in this one.**

Summary: He's fine, really, as long as he has someone. Anyone, really. But America can't always have someone with him.

Character: America (If you squint, you can see America x England, America x Canada and America x Japan?)

Rating: K+ (I guess?)

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_A Lone Star_

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Tony is gone for the night. "Fucking crop circles," he'd spat out, and America had laughed childishly even though he'd known it was a stupid and immature innuendo to even concoct in the first place.

But now the house is empty. Dark. But mostly, it's just empty.

Even the shadows from the moonlight aren't filling the hallways like they usually do.

He knows that his policies don't really make him friends, but his bosses know best, so he goes with them. He's fine, really, as long as he has someone. Anyone, really.

But America can't always have someone with him.

He paces the halls of his house, thinking. Thinking much too hard.

Canada is at a hockey game, so he can't come over. And even if he does, he'll probably be too drunk to make good conversation. Cross him off of the list.

England doesn't have his phone on him. That or it's broken. He's probably called about thirty times by now, and what time is it in England, anyway – 2:30 in the morning? Even when it's way too early, England _always _picks up; even if to complain that America's woken him up again.

But really, that's all he wants.

All he needs.

Japan… Japan is dealing with broken ribs and pneumonia as well as a nuclear crisis. He shouldn't even think of calling Japan right now.

What had he always said to Hawai'i when she'd refused to eat her oatmeal?

"Think of the starving children in Africa."

_It's selfish to think of yourself when there are others out there that are suffering far worse than you are._

But then, like the other 49, she'd grown to the physical age of seventeen and moved to her own home in her state capital.

And for far past the 50th time, America had convinced himself that he would be fine on his own.

He feels himself choke and tries to swallow, but there's a lump in his throat that he just can't get past.

"Coffee, I'll make some coffee," he says to himself, thinking that maybe he just needs to hear a voice. The sound bounces off of still, glassy photo frames and the stray dust particles drifting in the air, back to his ears.

It just makes the house seem even more abandoned.

He heads to the kitchen, colliding with a chair on his way there with a loud "Oof," – no mocking, alien laughter from the basement at the loud scuff, no "Oi, quit breaking everything you own, you sodding twit!"

Just silence.

America turns the lights on in the kitchen and bristles as they flicker on, off, and back on. It's a problem with the wiring, he's pretty sure; he really needs to get it checked out.

He brings out the half-empty tin and works with the machine, filling the filter with something that Canada brought down a week ago; hoping that if he closes his eyes he'll be able to smell maple or imagine that he's not the one making soft breathing noises or that the heart he hears beating is in someone else's chest.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that he's with someone.

But his eyelids are emptier than the halls, and he has to open them again before they start to itch.

He sits in a chair at the kitchen table – a small thing, really only for about two people. He'd once had a long, rectangular table that could seat fifty-one easily, just hoping.

Wishing.

It had been an incredible kitchen, then. Huge, airy. Big windows and two stoves, because California always had to be difficult and have something different from the rest of her siblings and North and South Dakota would never eat the same thing as the other. Wisconsin had to drown everything in cheese, and Georgia needed everything to contain peaches, whereas Pennsylvania took after his father and didn't care what he was forcing into his body as long as it was edible. He only knows these things from raising them. Maybe they're different now.

They never bother to visit, so he doesn't know.

No, the kitchen that was designed for fifty and one became smaller and smaller every year as visits lessened until he decided that it would be fine just to have enough room for himself and one other person – England would stay over if he had a conference in town and did _not _take kindly to the suggestion of sitting in America's lap while drinking his morning tea, Canada would casually stop by in DC for a few days when the weather was a bit too blustery up north and Japan would occasionally come calling to discuss a new publication from his country, a new video game or one of America's own comics.

America wonders when Japan will be well enough to visit again. The kitchen still vaguely smells like Japan's last visit; of ink and plastic and the flowery green tea that America keeps around for such occasions, and he has the sudden, childish urge to stop the coffee machine so it doesn't completely smother the scent.

But to his surprise, the glass coffeepot is full, the machine turned off automatically only a few moments before.

America fetches a mug for himself and swirls in what he knows is too much milk and far too much sugar. He wonders if England would like coffee more if he hadn't let him mix his coffee for him the first time he'd forced him to try it.

He raises the quickly warming mug to his lips and drinks quietly, feeling uncomfortable making any noise in such a still house. The liquid, just a tad over room temperature from the cold milk, drops into his stomach; just making him feel colder. His forced silence only magnifies the existing hush that has fallen over the estate and seeped into the walls; and he senses that familiar choking feeling building in his throat again.

America takes his cell out of his pocket and feels himself blindly typing out England's number by hand, raising the device to his ear almost before he's finished hitting the button to call.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Thrice.

On the fourth ring, America hears the sound of a phone being picked up, and he wants to believe that it is, but cell phones don't make that sound when a call is being accepted or a flip phone is being opened. And America knows that England still has a flip phone; he'd teased him about it after a summit just last week.

"Hello, you've reached Arthur Kirkland," no, he hasn't. Not really, and he sighs; but listens to the message if only to hear the soothing voice that is so often strained and incensed. "I'm sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but I'll assure you that it must be urgent if I'm not picking up. Please leave me your name, number and a brief message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

America ends the call as soon as he hears the robotic sounds of the voicemail starting to instruct him on how to leave a message. He's never left a voicemail for England. He likely never will, either. Besides, the lump in his throat has grown too large for him to speak through; his eyes are beginning to water.

He dumps the rest of the tepid coffee into the sink, filling the mug with water and letting it sit in the sink, resolving to wash the dishes tomorrow morning. He turns off the lights in the kitchen and again, the house is overtaken by eerie shadows cast by moonlight. He walks up the steps slowly, skipping the creaky third step that always makes him feel self-conscious.

Silent, he passes room after room and wonders why he hasn't started refurbishing, yet. Maybe he could just sell the entire property. All he really needs is a small house for one with guest accommodations and a pretty big basement for Tony. A decent kitchen, a little living room. And if he decided not to sell, maybe he could finally get around to cleaning out that storage room of his and put in a pool table or something.

But passing by the doors, he knows that he can't. The little, wooden signs that hang from each door won't let him. He knows the bedrooms behind those signs too well, he's too afraid of losing the children who decorated those rooms. He knows that there is still a pair of size ten cowboy boots collecting dust in Texas' closet, and he'd long since replanted the tiny orange seedling from Florida's room in the garden outside – if he stood at the headboard of the south-eastern state's bed, he could open the window and easily grasp a branch. Vermont's room smells faintly of burlap and wood, but it also smells like everything in the room was dipped in maple syrup and then barely rinsed. Sweet and light. Dusty with age, but he knew that if he looked into the room he would see the carved wooden chest they'd made together for her to keep her yarn dolls inside of. He almost opened the door. Green sign, white, childish letters. _Vermont._

But no, America won't disturb the rooms unless he needs to. He can't.

He needs the air in those rooms to stay the same now as it was all of those years ago, so when Illinois is ravaged with fires and refuses to come home or let him visit, America can lie on the too-small bed with his long legs hanging off of the back and just hold the pillow to his face and breathe in the smell of old cigar smoke and newspapers.

And it's almost as good as holding his son close. Almost as good as combing his fingers through that scruffy blond hair and kissing freckled cheeks and telling him that _it's alright_, _daddy's here, daddy's got you._

But it's not the same. And the Christmas photo he'd gotten a few decades ago – the fourth and last from Illinois – showed his hot-tempered little son who had always wanted to be a reporter at least two feet taller than he used to be, mature; a familiar, egocentric grin plastered on his face and a very visible burn creeping up his neck.

America realizes sometimes that he can't be a superhero. He can't protect his own children from themselves, he can't protect himself, he can't really protect _anything._ He had sobbed shamelessly into New York's pillow while one of his oldest sons had shrapnel removed from his chest, but America had felt the pain throughout his entire body. It echoed in his bone marrow, resonated through his frame – he'd felt every loss, heard every scream as though he had been there.

He can't be a superhero, and he knows this, but he can _try._

America can't see at this point and he blindly feels at the doorknobs – _shaped like a bell, this one's Pennsylvania's _– and moves to where he knows his own room is from there. There is no sign on his own door; the vertical boards are painted blue and red in a pattern and his name is spelt out in bold, white letters – _America. _Fifty tiny, white handprints adorn the lower half of the door – they couldn't reach high enough to touch his name when they were that young. He tries his best not to look at them.

The door is ajar, so he just pushes it open with his sheer body mass, flopping onto the plain bed sheets without bothering to change into something else.

The frames of his glasses press mercilessly into the tender skin around his eyes and nose, but he can barely feel it with all of the emotions swimming in his head. Canada did the laundry before he left back for Ottawa – he used that weird detergent that America usually hides in the back of the cabinet above the washing machine. It's soft and it smells like Canada's clothes after he's already been in DC for a day already - he holds the pillow close to his face, nestling his face into it as if it's all he has left.

For the night, it is.

America chokes again, voice refusing to break in his throat, and he closes his eyes tightly, trying to keep tears from escaping. There's not enough here – there are bits and pieces of the people he loves everywhere around him and within reach, but it's not _enough_ to ward off the loneliness and the emptiness and the shadows and the _cold._

The dark is cold. The shadows are cold, the house is cold, _America_ is cold. His fingertips are numb under his black, fur-lined gloves; his leather jacket is doing nothing to warm his cool skin. His powerful arms pull the down-filled pillow into his face until he can hardly breathe.

He cries.

He cries until his glasses are spotted with tears and his eyelashes are saturated with them, his face is slick and slimy and sticking to the pillow. He wracks with silent sobs until his bed is shaking with the force of them, until his sheets stick to whatever skin they can find and his hair is matted against his forehead.

When he's dried of tears, he wipes his face against a clean edge of the pillowcase, flips the pillow over, and falls dead asleep; eyes, cheeks and nose raw with salt and grime. A spare spasm interrupts his sleep every few moments, but he manages to keep his eyes closed.

He's fine, really, as long as he has someone. Anyone, really.

But America can't always have someone with him, and it's only during those times when he truly fears that he's completely alone.

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_xxxEnd_

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**I… I'm working on the Spain x Romano. I'm pretty close to finishing it, actually, but I was overcome by this irrational bout of loneliness and I didn't want it to interfere with my Romano writing-style, so I just… wrote this to channel it and get it out of my system. ((I'm not from Illinois, but I started crying as I wrote that part. No fact checking, so… sorry if I fucked anything up majorly.))**

**There are a lot of debilitating emotions out there, but loneliness can hit anyone at any time, and I wanted to express that; so I used America as a medium for my emotions instead of England like I normally would.**

**Ramblerambleramble, "Bring us more cute stuff, Emmilene!" Right-o, I'm on it. You should see your Spain x Romano in a day or so.**

**(Reading over this again, I guess you could say that I was inspired by Tamer Lorika's _Things That Trigger Memories_? Or just... Lorika in general. Haha.)  
**


	29. Hawksbill

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than Romano owns real estate on Antigua.**

Summary: Romano pulls some strings and gets himself a free vacation with Spain, but it's riddled with annoyances.

Pairing: Spain x Romano

Rating: M (very implied pseudo-sex, terrible writing, lengthy, unbeta-ed, shoot me please)

* * *

_Hawksbill_

* * *

Stepping off of a plane after over seven hours of non-stop flying (with _Spain,_ ugh) to face an immediate, stifling heat is not Romano's idea of fun.

He also doesn't appreciate the fact that they have to walk down those ridiculous rolling staircase things or the fact that customs are in an open building that is similarly hot and humid compared to the outside. Sure, the ladies checking luggage and working customs are pretty and clean and smiling and happy and inviting, but that doesn't exactly play into the scenario when he's supposed to be on a dreadful 'couple's vacation' with his – Romano gags at the thought even as it passes through his mind – _boyfriend._

He looks over at his – _ugh_ – lover, who is, true to his nature, wearing a pair of comically oversized sunglasses (perched uselessly on his head, of course), a hideously tacky tropical shirt, repulsively baggy shorts and a pair of cheap sandals. His tousled hair is messier than usual from all of the "sleeping" he did on the flight – sleeping, yeah right. Spain snores in his sleep. Not loudly, but he _does_. (Don't ask Romano how he knows that, he'll deny having the knowledge.) Romano is certain that Spain was only pretending to be asleep so he could lean against him and contaminate his nice clothes with idiocy.

What a total bastard.

"It was really nice of America to let us stay in his summer home here, wasn't it, Romano?" He's… bubbling. He's actually _bubbling_ with happiness. What a freak.

The Italian shudders and wonders why he does nice things for idiots like Spain. God knows that Spain doesn't deserve the fruits of his labour.

Not that he works _hard_ to do nice things for Spain.

"Yeah, whatever… goddamn, can you hurry up and get the fucking bags? I'm being boiled alive, here."

"Okay, Romano~!"

Of course, in Romano-speak, doing "nice things" for idiots like Spain entails something like showing up at America's doorstep with a few of his Mafia at three in the morning on Friday the 13th, a brief knock on the door while he and his acquaintances are covered in bed sheets and a promise that he will skin England in the middle of the night and send his ghost to force-feed the American horribly burnt scones for the rest of his life should he fail to acquiesce to their demands.

And, of course, the only solution to prevent such a fate would be to hand over the keys to his outrageously nice house in Jumby Bay for the spring and never speak of the meeting again.

Considering the fact that the American was almost scarily easy to manipulate (especially since he didn't know which country was manipulating him), Spain was almost scarily easy to please (just the words "plane ride" made his eyes brighten and his imaginary tail start wagging) and the Italian was scarily… scary (when provoked, damn it; you can't be a womanizer just by being scary!), the whole transaction was really very easy to visualize, plan and complete (thanks completely to luck and very happy coincidences).

After filling out the paperwork required (and definitely not while pointedly avoiding eagle-eyed Antigua, who he'd accidentally stood up on a date a few years ago after a World Conference and they'd not since talked), Romano manages to wave down a cab after much complaining and pulling Spain from this place to the next.

Well, if you can call it a cab. It's more like a black, seven to nine person van with - air conditioning; _fuck_ yes – a rather talkative driver and not-as-clear-as-Spain-and-his-digital-camera-would-like windows. Romano tells the driver where they're going and zones out, watching as bright blue skies and orange tiles and white mosaics and magenta flowers that look like they're made of paper blur into some sort of blorangwhigenta color behind his eyelids.

Spain shakes him awake at their stop – had he really fallen asleep in under three minutes? – and Romano tips the driver. He doesn't normally tip people for doing their fucking _jobs_ which they _should_ be getting paid to do by their _employers_ (meaning the people who were employing them and should rightfully be paying them a wage instead of asking visitors to dip into their vacation money), but he figures that any poor sap who has to work in this heat every day and listen to people like Spain should be able to go down to the store and buy his girlfriend something nice like… a coconut.

Whatever is considered something nice in Antigua.

…though he's fairly certain that if he'd tried to show up to his date with Antigua with a coconut as a gift, he'd get his skull bashed in by the vibrant young woman.

Romano has Spain unload the luggage onto the ground while he dutifully scouts out the horizon for the ferry to the small resort island. A small white crest is coming toward them, white and blue and looking _so_ inviting compared to humid heat, which has come back to its job of dutifully smothering Romano. The petite vessel looks almost like it's made of plastic or some other cheap and sinkable substance as it docks; the Italian is wary of setting foot into it, but Spain loads the luggage on easily like some sort of lumbering pack mule.

Hmph, he has the lumbering part down already.

Romano sits down on one of the plastic-looking benches, staring at the luggage which looks like it wants nothing more than to become fish food and then the craft starts _moving_ and it makes the most ridiculous revving sound that Romano has ever heard, and he'd heard Spain's drunken attempts at imitating a motorcycle. His fingers curl around the bench and he holds on tight; Spain is shaking his shoulder because "Romano, Romano! We can stand up in the front of the boat and feel the sea breeze," and wouldn't that be a wonderful start to their vacation, with salty spray layering his face and caking into his silk shirt and frizzing his hair out on the very first day?

"No, I'm going to watch the bags."

And Spain makes those stupid sad eyes and sits down next to Romano and the Italian starts squirming uncomfortably because _Spain is never sad_ and he finds himself sitting up at the front of the shiny plastic white boat anyway, Spain leaning dangerously over the edge of the rail and chattering excitedly and taking pictures and _I wonder how long it would take him to drown if I pushed him over_…

They make it across with little to no hassle. The bags make it across, but Romano warily eyes the British couple who had been on the ferry with them – he hadn't thought to notice them until he'd realized that their bags had been left with those two and _what if they stole something?_

He pushes the thought from his mind because _now_ that needy Spaniard is tugging on his arm and _when did he get all of the baggage onto the dock_, but hey, it doesn't really matter as long as Romano doesn't have to carry it.

Because Romano is doing all of the difficult trans-continental paperwork and making sure that they don't go to fucking jail or something. Spain can do a little heavy lifting; it wouldn't kill him to put on a little more muscle.

Though he certainly doesn't need it.

Shaking the thought from his mind, Romano signs some forms to allow them to rent a golf cart – a _golf cart_, Jesus Christ. Spain could drive for all he cared; if Romano couldn't speed down the street, he didn't even want to be the one behind the wheel.

So Romano sits beside the driver's seat for once, crossing his arms and grumbling about sissy machinery and how fucking hot it is and can Spain please hurry his stupid ass up and get them the hell out of here?

So the Spaniard finally stops chit-chatting with one of the island greeters about scuba-diving (which was useless from the get-go, like _hell_ is Romano going to put on one of those repulsive body suits) and loads the suitcases onto the back – a sort of pickup-truck-meets-golf-cart-and-has-repulsive-inbred-babies sort of thing; a boxy, steel contraption that looked as though it would hurt to touch resting where a second row of seats would come standard on most others.

Romano won't have to worry about the steel boxy contraption of doom, though; because he won't be lifting a fucking finger for this vacation. No, he is going to sit back and enjoy the muggy heat and the spicy food and the irritating British tourists—

_Fuck_. Why are they here again?

Spain finally backs out with what _had_ to be the most grating sound that Romano has ever heard, bar none. He would gladly listen to France singing about "_le tr__è__s bien moi"_ at the semi-obligatory after-conference karaoke parties for the rest of his life if he never had to hear this sound again.

Romano just hopes that it will all be over when they find America's ridiculous property – "named _Freedom_," the trembling nation had offered in the presence of his ghostly visitors that fateful night – so he can find the nearest bed, crawl on top of it and sleep for a good week to get rid of this fucking jet lag.

...~...

As it happens, Romano gets none of his wishes. His – _ugh_ – boyfriend takes about an hour to figure out the fact that the brakes are wimpy, so he goes at _half_ of the speed that he should be going. Oh, and Spain stops to photograph hermit crabs and other such nonsense for another good two hours after that, babbling like the deranged lunatic he is about the beauty of the wildlife and isn't Romano so happy to be somewhere so nice and calm?

Yes, but right now he would much rather be nice and calm in the comfort of a nice, clean bed. Not to mention that the back of their pickup-truck-golf-cart-bastard-child had started squeaking in the back under the weight of the luggage.

After taking a photo of probably the fiftieth lizard that they've seen on the island already, Spain pipes up with, "So, where exactly is America's summer home?"

Romano should have tried to bring his gun on board just on the off chance that it would be overlooked and he would have the chance to shoot himself in the head right now.

...~...

They nearly die when Spain tries to drive down the (driveway? Path?) long, squiggly stone path-type thing that leads to a tiled, shaded (thank fucking God) courtyard of some sort. Some sort of green, mossy foliage peeps up between the tiles and there's a two-car(t?) garage with one of those tennis balls suspended from the ceiling; the kind of thing that is supposed to prevent stupid drivers from crashing their carts into the back of the tiny space.

He can tell from a badly-done paintjob covering a noticeable dent that it didn't stop a certain reckless driver from crashing, and he really should be less surprised. It hadn't helped Spain back at home, either.

Romano finally pushes Spain out of the driver's seat and onto mossy orange tiles, pulling the cart into the garage. Sighing from his – stop using that word - _boyfriend_'s – _eurgh _– lack of courage when it comes to parking, he shimmies out of the tiny garage and into the courtyard, which seems to be lacking a certain _flair_ that the owner always managed to work into his buildings. It seems… almost _Spanish_, if he's honest with himself. It contains some sort of oddly fitting fountain and all of the matching orange shingles are covered in those papery, magenta flowers that he hates. Looking through the open kitchen, Romano can see into a nearby harbor; as well as a somewhat scary infinity-edge pool. Well-cared for potted plants surround the manmade body of water, and as he trots around to its end he notices a set of wooden steps leading down to what appears to be a private section of beach.

America, the showy motherfucker.

_But,_ he thinks, _wouldn't America have something much more absurd than this?_

He suddenly gets the sickening feeling that America wasn't the only one to design this estate, and who does he know who enjoys islands and horticulture and ships and nice weather and tottery old golf carts and gloating over Spanish spoils and tea—?

He tries to stop thinking about it, but the knowledge that America and England likely spend a lot of vacation time here makes him want to throw up a little.

Striding into the kitchen and ignoring Spain's oblivious admiration of the surroundings, he rifles through drawers until he finds labeled keys ("Why does everything have to be fucking _labeled?_") – Red Room, White Room and (Romano rolls his eyes) Blue Room. There are a few other keys – Study, Master Bedroom, Library (who the fuck comes to the tropics to _read?_), Darkroom, and another key with the letters XXX nearly blacked out and – and, in the tiniest handwriting the Italian had ever seen – the scribbled message of "you absolute wanker" alongside the remaining room on the title card (Romano doesn't even want to know. He'd rather hide that key under the rug indefinitely than even think about it, honestly) – but they won't really be needing those facilities since Spain will want to be a total idiot and run out to the beach all day and get horribly sunburnt and whine and Romano will have to deal with it and _why the fuck are we here again—_

Romano thrusts the key to the Red Room into the lock and turns it rather harshly, throwing it open and leaving it that way. He flops onto the nearest bed, making a sound that is half-groan, half-scream. Quite a nasty combination. Although each of the rooms has two beds, Romano insists that Spain stay in the Blue Room; partially because Spain is a pervert and partially because Romano has a condition that keeps his eyes glued to well-muscled, oblivious and tanned Spaniards.

At least Romano _realizes_ that he has a problem.

Shit.

He rests his eyes and makes some sort of constant whining sound against the slightly irritating, cottony fabric of the covers before forcing himself to stand back up – Spain had delivered Romano's luggage to just inside of the door, finally doing something fucking _right_ for once – and sort out what would go where. He was slightly aggravated now that he knew that England had a part in designing the premises: rather than having some expensive, elaborate and likely overpowering air conditioning system that is typical (and grudgingly appreciated) of America, the separate rooms only have ceiling fans with extremely slow rotation periods. Fitting the atmosphere, perhaps, but it's too fucking _hot_ to appreciate the atmosphere without proper air conditioning.

The doors have slats that can open and close (so Spain can't spy on him, perfect) and there is a set of dark, wooden drawers. There's some sort of mosquito coil in a clay dish on the bureau, he decides to put the matches there so he'll remember to light it later that night. He decides to do the same for Spain before they leave (not because he cares, but it would be better than being forced to rub Cortisone onto Spain's very much enflamed wounds the next day).

Whatever.

He looks through the rest of the room; tastefully shielded light fixtures, a bathroom that is lacking a shower with a big, glass door leading to… a wall? Romano frowns and opens the door, scowling when he realizes that there are multiple locks on the damned doors. So he pulls stoppers and unlocks locks until he gets the right combination, stepping outside.

"Oh, _fuck_ no."

It's an outdoor shower. No no no no _no._ He is _not_ going to take his cooling showers out in this heat with fucking… _lizards_ ogling his body.

No. No. Not going to happen.

Romano growls and slams the door, causing the glass in the door to reverberate dangerously. Fuck this. Fuck it all. He changes into a pair of shorts that would be suitable for warm weather and a light cotton shirt, sighing and stepping into the courtyard. Spain seems to have thrown his things into his room haphazardly and is about halfway into the fountain trying to take a picture of yet another lizard. Romano doesn't really see the appeal of the scaly little bastards, but whatever.

"Spain, we're leaving. Now. I'm driving," he's already heading for the inbred golf cart as he says this, Spain whines.

"Awww, Romano! Come on, the lizard…!"

Romano returns to Spain and pulls him into the garage by the ear, only letting go when the Spaniard has stopped crying and is finally sitting in his seat, pouting and looking through the pictures he's collected on his camera.

Romano backs out and Spain can only utter a frightened "_Dios mio_," before they're zipping back around that ridiculously swervy path back out to the main… road-thing.

"We're here, you can stop fucking cowering."

Romano had only run into _one_ palm tree, Spain is definitely overreacting.

"Pasture Bay… or so it says."

What is _with _this place and naming _everything?_ Romano understands naming a beach or a restaurant, but come on. Freedom? Red, White and Blue rooms? Those are ridiculous names! Romano has been looking at the map (a watercoloury thing, very adorable and very much _not_ Romano's style), and there's a private estate on the island named _Bananaquit_. What the _fuck_ is a bananaquit?

He clambers out of the driver's seat (irritated for some reason, unsurprisingly) and starts yanking Spain after him. Spain is shocked dumb (also unsurprisingly) from witnessing Romano's ability to get from one place to the next without taking pictures of one million and one different scaled demons, but he quickly finds something on the beach that makes his eyes brighten up and his mouth start working again.

He bounds through the long beach grass and picks up something larger than a fist and shining an opaque pink on the inside.

"Romano, it's a perfect conch shell!"

The shell is shoved into Romano's hands and he stares at it, a little surprised and unsure whether he should throw it at Spain's head or try to break it in his hands so he can watch Spain's stupid smile turn into a stupid frown. He decides on neither, simply staring at the Spaniard.

"Your point?"

Spain blinks as if expecting better of the Italian. "If you hold it to your ear, you can hear the ocean! I just tried."

Romano can only sigh. "Of course you heard the ocean, it's _right there,_" he extends a finger toward the waves lapping at rough sand to illustrate his point. Spain visibly deflates.

"…right… oh!"

He runs away from Romano upon seeing a piece of sea glass and essentially begins collecting shells, pieces of coral and strangely colored rocks. He starts chatting over his shoulder about how his favorite cabin boy in the Armada's flagship had used to collect odds and ends from shores and make jewelry from it, selling necklaces and bracelets to sweet young girls when they'd make port. Romano rolls his eyes and sits in what looks like a lawn chair under a weather-beaten straw umbrella; long since abandoned, watching Spain run along.

Eventually, Spain decides to discard a bunch of his clothes and makes Romano hold them (much to his protesting, Spain running around half naked looking like a tanned Adonis on the beach in the afternoon sun is _not _good for Romano's condition, damn it!), so Romano watches his clothes for him. But mostly, he's ignoring the clothes and watching Spain.

He _does_ have a condition, after all.

No, seriously.

Romano's eyes follow the tanned figure, watching Spain's (_rippling, glorious_) abs contract whenever he bends over. Every so often (whenever Spain's large hands get full), he returns back under the straw umbrella with the abandoned plastic lawn chair and drops off shells and coral and pebbles with Romano.

Romano distractedly looks between sexy abs and the pile of shells. A lot of the shells have holes in them, and so do some of the pieces of coral. He inspects a spiral shell more closely; it's a very pretty one, white with tiny brown markings and—

…that shell isn't moving, is it?

It's _definitely _moving.

"S-_Spain," _he squeaks and turns his head back, shrinking back in the lawn chair. Spain jogs back over and _the crucifix around his neck bouncing against his pecs is definitely _not_ entrancing and Romano needs to stop looking and _oh yeah, the phantom shell. "The shell. Over there. It's m-moving."

Spain takes a look. And then he laughs, the absolute _bastard._ "It's just a hermit crab, _Lovinito~!_" He picks the thing up by its tiny shell and holds it in front of Romano's face. "I bet it's more scared of you than you are of it, even!"

Romano smacks it away and, hey, he just allowed a land and water-dwelling creature to _fly_ before it died. That has to be a first. Spain, however, does not see Romano as a benevolent granter-of-flight, giving a poor hermit crab one last exhilarating ride before it meets with the pearly white gates (which are more than likely made of actual pearls in sea creature Heaven).

No, Spain _whines_ about his treatment of the animal (it was just self-defense, that thing had curled back into its shell like it was getting ready to _attack!_) and goes searching for its remains in the sparse brush clumps to the unexplored side of the umbrella. Either he forgets about the hermit crab or he decides that it's alive, because he continues exploring that side while Romano sleeps.

…well, he _tries _to sleep, anyway. But he keeps having nightmares about giant hermit crabs snipping his toes off and then throwing him; so he gives up on sleeping and sits up, pulling his knees to his chest and wiggling his toes.

Not because he's afraid they've been snipped off or anything.

_Someone tell me why the _fuck_ I'm putting up with this, again?_

Spain has wandered off, so Romano feigns ignorance of the tiny tracks in the sand that seem to have surrounded the plastic chair and leaps off in search of him, definitely not clutching the Spaniard's clothes to his chest in _fear_, of course not.

Italians fear many things, but _crabs_ are not among the numbers.

Well, not the animal kind of crabs.

Anyway.

He follows the footprints far toward the end of the beach only to notice Spain jogging toward him, looking particularly excited.

"Romano," he tries to whisper, but it comes out as a sort of whisper-yell. It's a more unpleasant combination than Romano's earlier groan-scream; the sounds don't go together as well. "Follow me, follow me!"

Romano rolls his eyes and follows as Spain turns on his heels and starts back down the beach, noticing the sand start to get softer and less broken shells and what appear to be lovely, strange skid marks leading up from the ocean—

What.

Romano follows the marks – faded quite a bit, actually - up the beach to what appears to be a big… rock.

He blinks.

"Oh, _shit._ The hermit crabs are growing?"

Spain forces his hand over Romano's mouth to shut him up – Romano bites his palm because it's covered in sand and tastes like saltwater and just _ew_, okay? Spain responds by pressing harder and pulling Romano back against his chest and – no, this is _not_ kinky, Romano is _not _turned on by being silenced and controlled and pressed up against tanned, washboard abs, not at all—

"Lovi," Spain whispers in his ear, pulling his hand away from the Italian's mouth. Romano shivers. "…she's a hawksbill…"

Blink.

Blink again.

"What."

Spain seems to think about something (shocker) for a few moments before taking Romano's wrist and pulling him toward the greenish rock-thing. Spain takes his camera from the other, taking pictures from a million different angles; none with flash.

"…Spain, I _said_ 'What,' and I intend to have you _answer me_."

Spain points at the turtle. "She's a turtle. She's a girl." Romano rolls his eyes; yes, if you call it a she, that makes it a girl. Thank you for the lesson in pronouns, Spain. "She's a hawksbill turtle. And she's laying eggs."

…oh, right. _This_ is why they're here.

Now, Romano hadn't been doing any _research_ or anything. No, that stuff was for _pansies _who care about their – _eurgh _- significant others. No, Romano had just on an off-chance heard from someone, somewhere that America had a house on a resort island just a little east of Antigua which happened to be known for their hawksbill turtle nesting beaches. And that house was empty for most of the working year. And that America was busy during the spring when the turtles would start nesting.

And Spain loves turtles.

_Fuck. I'm in deep._

Romano crosses his arms as the sun starts going down, tapping his foot in the sand. The waves are starting to lap up near his feet, so he moves up the beach a bit, irritated.

"Spain, I know you want to shoot some sort of weird, perverted turtle-porn or something, but we have to go home."

Not home-home, but here-home. America's place. The hideout. Whatever you were going to call it. Spain isn't amused by what Romano is implying, and he frowns.

"It's not turtle porn, _Lovinito_... we're witnessing something beautiful~!"

Romano snorts. It's a giant, greenish-brown thing trying to lay its sticky eggs filled with its less giant (but still pretty huge) greenish-brown babies in the sand.

Beautiful. Yeah.

Right.

…it's actually kind of, you know, gross. Considering the fact that Spain is basically disturbing an endangered species of turtle while it's trying to preserve its species in peace. "Preserving its species" is very kind terminology considering the sight that Romano is witnessing.

He starts wondering why, again, he decided to come on _this_ vacation, to _this _island. Romano reasons that it's because he's gone soft in the heart and mushy in the brain; nobody would _willingly_ bend over backwards to ensure that his or her _significant other_ was this happy.

Shit, why does he bother trying? Spain would have been just as happy if Romano had made dinner for once or brought him a dandelion or something. But his face is glowing almost orange in the glow of the sunset, and he has this entranced, reverent look on his face as he starts taking less pictures and spending more time just crouching in front of the turtle, seeming to look past its protruding beak to look it straight in the eyes.

There are few times when Spain looks like he's truly happy. Sure, he's usually happy, but it's just in his nature to overreact to just about everything. But Romano has known Spain for a long time, he's known many expressions, just about all of them by now, he thinks. He knows the "I'm-not-really-fine-but-I'm-pretending-for-your-sake-so-don't-question-me" smiles and the "something-is-really-upsetting-me-and-it-would-really-help-if-you-weren't-cruel-to-me-right-now" frowns from his childhood, the "I-really-wish-you'd-visit-more-often-but-it's-not-going-to-happen-so-I'll-enjoy-you-while-I-have-you" grins from his recent years.

In the span of time that they've been together, he's gathered some of his favourites, though he won't admit it aloud – the "I-really-don't-know-how-I-lived-without-you" smiles usually accompanied with a less-crushing-than-usual hug from behind and the "if-you-don't-strip-right-now-I-swear-to-God-that-I'll-tear-your-clothes-off-myself" look that tends to smoulder in Spain's eyes after a nice dinner with red wine or an accidental innuendo or if he stretches a certain way or if Romano is simply being a bit too Romano-esque.

The Italian had found out the hard way that Spain was actually frighteningly good at tearing cloth apart when he was faced with the prospect having more Romano to look at.

He had also been surprised to find that the only thing he liked more than wearing his fancy silk shirts was having Spain rip them to shreds; their glassy, opaque buttons flying everywhere and rolling under the carpets.

Regardless, the appearance of Spain's face right now is making Romano's something in his stomach do flips. This is the sort of face that Spain makes when his eyes are closed in the middle of the storage room that Romano isn't supposed to know that he has, filled from bottom to top with hidden spoils from his years heading the armada, holding a feathered trifold close to his chest. It's the face that kept Romano from complaining of boredom at Mass when Spain was most committed to Catholicism, his entire face shining with devotion.

It makes Romano swallow past something in his throat and come up from behind, touching a hand to Spain's shoulder. "I think… we should leave her alone, now," he hears himself saying; and it's almost like they aren't his words.

He hates the way Spain effects him sometimes.

Spain just looks up at him and nods in agreement, standing and taking his clothes from the Italian's arms.

...~...

The drive back to _Freedom_ is quiet, Romano thinking about his partner while Spain thinks about God knows what. Romano is pretty sure that it's not wildlife this time, because Spain's camera doesn't leave its home in the pocket of baggy, beige shorts.

They pull into the courtyard and brake before the fountain, not bothering to put the cart away. Spain pauses noticeably before leaving to the Blue Room, and before long Romano is lighting the mosquito coil in his room. This reminds him to do the same for Spain, so he sneaks over, a little less placid than he had been on the trip back.

The water is running outside, so Spain is taking a shower in the dark – it must be strange, Romano thinks. As he's lighting the coil (or trying to, whenever he strikes a match the cross breeze from the open doors seems to cancel it out), Spain comes out of the bathroom, flashing a small, sincere smile at Romano as he towels his hair off. The Italian ignores how the look effects him and finally figures out a method that should work – striking the match and then shoving it through one of the various holes in the bottom of the clay dish.

The green helix catches fire and starts burning down, and Romano feels tanned arms circle his waist from behind as Spain rests his head against his shoulder, damp locks brushing against his cheek and leaving thin traces of water. Romano just stiffens, trying to find a way out before Spain says—

"Stay with me tonight, Lovino?"

—Romano's heart skips a beat and he leans back against the chest that is slowly drenching his shirt, because he's never been able to say no when Spain asks like this.

So instead of protesting as he usually does, he lets Spain pick him up, kissing his neck and asking him _please, just don't leave_ and Romano can only close his eyes to promise that he won't, because how is he supposed to speak?

Spain can go two ways when he's in this solemn, gentle kind of mood. Usually, he just kisses Romano a few times; lingering, chaste kisses peppering his cheeks and neck; then he pulls his ex-charge close to his chest and they warm each other through the night, never moving past gentle caresses.

But Romano knows that Spain's mood is not taking him in that direction when Spain sits him on the nearest bed and begins undoing Romano's shirt; Romano's own arms lightly slung over Spain's shoulders as his lover presses soft, damp lips to his neck and chest.

No, Spain is in one of his rare moods when he is so pleased with Romano that he forgets to be boisterous. It's even more rare for this mood to result in sex, but Romano likes it when Spain gets like this because he's quiet and subdued, so Romano is allowed to be quiet and subdued, too. He doesn't have to yell at Spain about his childish behavior because, for once, he isn't acting like a child.

But really, Romano loves it when Spain acts this way. Romano doesn't have to do anything but let go, and Spain just murmurs all of the things that he loves about his sweet Italian between kisses. These are the things that he loves to hear – specific details that prove that Spain is paying attention to him, that he isn't just dismissing everything he does as "cute" and frittering away his mind up in the clouds.

"I love the way that your nose scrunches up when you're embarrassed," he whispers as he kisses Romano's scrunched-up nose, getting a small smile. He knows that he can read Spain perfectly, but sometimes he forgets that Spain can read him just as well.

Romano would rather have well-worn pages than stay untouched and clean, so the reassurance that Spain is always watching him, noticing him and cataloguing every little thing that he does makes him almost want to cry from happiness, from shame, from invasion of privacy.

"I love how your ears turn red when you're angry with yourself, _Lovinito_," Spain croons as he kisses each ear, letting Romano pull him a little closer, "and I love how sometimes you smile while you're reading and you don't realize that you're doing it until you catch me staring."

Romano is the one to break the cycle of kisses and complements, nudging Spain's jaw wordlessly with his nose, turning dark green eyes to stare into his own. He closes his eyes and lets fingers slip into cool, chocolate curls with a gentleness that is mostly foreign to him; moving his other hand from Spain's back to his own calloused one, uncurling his fist to let their fingers fit together seamlessly.

Spain breaks away once every few moments to mumble his adoration against Romano's lips until the younger of them begins to answer with admiration of his own until the words start to fade away and his mind becomes misty with something he can't name, _won't _name; something that turns two people into a single couple.

"I love the way that you get when you've hurt my feelings and you suddenly get affectionate."

"I like the way that you never take me seriously even when I'm being serious, but I don't really mind as long as you don't stop smiling like an idiot."

Spain kisses him deeply until he feels that he can't breathe, doesn't _need _to breathe, could go without ever breathing again as long as he doesn't have to stop breathing in the masculine, earthy scent that clings to his skin and hangs around him like glass beads suspended in the air.

Romano can never seem to remember what happens on these nights after this point; usually he blacks out at the end and all he can remember is seeing white behind his eyes and whispered Spanish praise; the scent of soap with a faint undertone of sex. He doesn't mind being unable to remember because he always wakes up with a tanned body holding him close and that lean chest curved just right against his back; a crucifix pressed lightly between his shoulder blades - feeling a dull ache throughout his body, but mostly feeling completely satisfied and muzzy and as though he'll never move again, but in a good way.

He wakes up the next morning with that gentle, familiar ache in his lower back and a devoted (if calm) Spain pressed against him, gently nibbling his ear and humming to himself. He seems to sense that his lover is stirring, because he softly presses a kiss to Romano's cheek and lets a "_Te amo_" hang in the air, smiling against that same neck when the Italian shifts slightly and covers Spain's larger hands with his own.

He doesn't speak – he can't return the sentiment verbally. But Spain doesn't need words to feel, so he simply gives another kiss to Romano's skin and pulls him a fraction closer until Romano can feel a pleasant warmth coiling in his stomach, unwavering and comfortable.

He's not sure if he'll ever be able to say it, but he knows that he feels it and he knows that Spain knows that he feels it; and as far as he cares, that's all that they need.

_This is why we're here._

* * *

_xxxEnd_

* * *

**So… this monster is just a little over 6000 words long. I know that's not **_**really**_** a lot, but I feel like most of it is short and choppy but I'm about to fall asleep and I was going to do sex but then I got self-conscious and almost died while attempting to emulate all of my favorite writers at once and I just fizzled and blah.**

**So yeah. Jumby Bay! It's where I've been for the past two-ish weeks, and it's far, far, **_**far**_** nicer here than Romano describes. He's just… bitchy as always.**

**ANYWAY, there's a quarterly paper in Jumby Bay, and it was talking about the hawksbill and green turtle nesting season from last year and how it's turned out this year so far. Anyway, a rare green turtle was founded amidst the nesters and everybody was really surprised – lots of photos. But there is this girl in one photo who my sisters and I just **_**can't **_**stop making fun of because she just does not seem to understand what all of the fuss is about. Hands on her hips, rolling her eyes, the whole shebang. But I looked at this article and was like "Turtles." So yeah. **

**(And [since you care so much,] a bananaquit is a black and white and yellow bird indigenous to areas with warm climates, preferring to be loud and obnoxious high up in palm trees while people are trying to eat mac and cheese while they write fanfiction, kthxbai.)**


End file.
